#hearing the screams of the dying and decided to go ahead and embrace her weird ass friends and her weird ass self? that was beautiful <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[skywitchmaja]

malydia are sooo fun because they boldly ask the question “what if too lesbians who were sooo autistic in the exact opposite directions? but what if they’re not actually autistic they’re just Like That because they are a harbinger of death and a girl who spent the last several years of her life as a coyote? but what if still, actually really truly and for real, they were both autistic (in the exact opposite directions)?” and they answer is, of course, “well, that would be awesome”

[annab-nana]

Stuck - Colby Brock

On their way to celebrate the last day of 2019, y/n, Colby, and all their friends get stuck in an elevator.

Warnings: some curse words; slightly smut (dirty kissing)

Word Count: 1.7k+

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“I’m really loving your hair,” I tell Colby as I look at him through the full-body mirror he had in his living room. I was sitting in front of it while I was putting on my makeup. All the red in Colby’s hair had washed out so he dyed it purple earlier today. He got it cut too and it just made him look all the better. Oh, the things we were going to do later tonight.

“Thanks,” He said as he ruffled a hand through the now lavender locks. He sat down on the couch beside me and scrolled through his phone, probably on Instagram. I focused on what I was doing as I blended my foundation into my skin. Once that was looking flawless, I went to work on my eyes. I kept it simple with neutral colors, a little winged liner, and some mascara. I completed the look with nude-pink lipstick and topped it off with some gloss.

I went to Colby’s room after I curled my hair and searched through my bag to grab my little black dress. I slipped it on, but I couldn’t quite reach the back to zip it up.

“Colby!” I yelled.

“Yes?” He shouted.

“Could you come here for a second?” I ask sweetly. I hear his footsteps come closer until he opens the door.

“You requested my presence?” He says with a smirk. I giggle slightly before remembering why I needed him in the first place.

“Yes, can you help me zip this up?” I asked as I turned around so he could get to it. The smirk never left his face as he walked over to me. I felt his soft fingertips run down my bare back before he found the zipper. Slowly, he pulled the zipper up and I felt his warm breath against my neck. His breath moved from my neck to my ear.

“I can’t wait to take this off of you later,” He whispers in my ear, his voice a little deeper than normal. He pulls the zipper the rest of the way up before turning me around to face him.

“You look really good right now,” He says as he looks me up and down. He licks his lips as his gaze drops from my eyes to my lips and takes a step closer. His hand traveled to the side of my face as he pulled me into him and placed his soft pink lips against mine. I giggled slightly against his lips as my hands found their way around his neck and my fingers ruffled through his hair. His hands were placed on my hips, pulling me close to him. I tugged lightly at his hair, causing his lips to part open. My tongue took its opportunity and darted between his open lips, exploring a place it new very well. His did the same before he pulled away slightly and let his tongue travel down my neck before he started to gently suck on it.

“Colby…” I moaned breathlessly. We don’t have the time to be doing anything right now. Everyone will be arriving at Sam’s soon and we should be too. Colby’s mouth moved from my neck to my ear where he began to nibble lightly at the lobe.

“Colby,” I repeated, still catching my breath, but slightly sterner.

“Hmm?” He hummed in response.

“As much as I’m enjoying this, we need to hurry up and get ready,” I tell him as he continues to nibble at my skin, working his way down to right above my breasts that were trapped in my dress.

“Colby, I’m serious. We can’t be late again.” I plead with him to which he finally stops. He gives me an evil glare and pouts.

“Don’t look at me like that. You aren’t ready in the slightest. I have to redo my lipstick and cover this up.” I say as I point to the newly forming hickey on my neck. He rolls his eyes and plants short, sweet kiss on my cheek before turning around to walk to his closet. I walk back to where my makeup is and fix what needs to be fixed. I finish getting ready by putting on some hoop earrings and red heels. I sit down on the couch and scroll through Instagram while I wait on Colby to get ready.

“I can’t wait to take that off of you later,” I repeat his same words as he walks out in his all-black outfit, looking absolutely sexy. I couldn’t help the instinct to clench my legs together. He just looked so damn good. A smirk grew upon his face as he walked over to me. He knew what he was doing to me, but I knew I was doing the same thing for him in this little ass dress. He grabbed my hand to help me up off the couch and smacked my ass as I went for the doorknob. I turned around to face him and he was looking everywhere but at me. I rolled my eyes before opening the door. He led the way and knocked on Sam’s door. I heard the footsteps getting closer to the door and I smacked him on the ass right before the door opened.

“Hi Kat!” I said excitedly as I went up to hug her. Sam was beside her and looked at Colby with a puzzled look on his face.

“Everything alright?” I heard Sam whisper to his best friend. I let out a giggle as I pulled away from Katrina’s embrace.

“Yeah, he’s fine. Just a little excited about tonight. Right, babe?” I told Sam as I looked up at Colby. He moved around awkwardly and pulled me to be slightly in front of him.

“Yep, all good here.” He said confidently. Sam and Kat gave each other a weird look before leaving to talk to the others that were here. I turned around to look at Colby, then looked down to where he was situating his pants.

“Did that turn you on?” I giggled at him. I didn’t realize he liked it when I slapped his ass.

“Shut it, y/n,” he muttered under his breath and turned me around. We walked around talking to our friends until it was time to go to the party. Everyone piled onto the elevator, Colby and I the last two to get on. It was a tight squeeze with around fifteen of us on here. I was wedged between Colby and Kevin. The elevators shut and we began our descent. Colby and Kevin were talking above my head as I stood between them. I’ve never really liked elevators so the sooner we get off this thing the better.

“Let’s jump!” Aryia exclaimed from the back-right corner. Several people said no, but Sam thought it was a great idea.

“Let’s do it!” I heard Sam shout from behind Colby. I gave Colby a look that said control your best friend, but he just shrugged at me. Sam always had to be never normal. He jumped and then the elevator came to a harsh stop, making us feel like we're falling. I screamed as Colby pulled me into him and placed his hand on the back of my head to pull it under his to protect it. As all that was happening, I felt another pair of strong arms wrap around Colby and me in a protective manner.

“Is everyone okay?” I heard Kevin’s voice close behind me as he let Colby and I go. I looked up at Colby who was nodding at him. I looked around and everyone had shocked looks on their faces that slowly turned into smiles as we began to laugh together.

“Holy shit, Sam,” Colby chuckled at his best friend. Kat looked amused at her boyfriend as she giggled into his chest.

“What do we do now?” Jake says from behind Kevin. The elevator stopped and the doors didn’t open so we’re stuck.

“I’ll call the building manager and tell them we’re stuck,” Sam said as he pulled out his phone. Once the phone call was ended and we started our wait for the firefighters to get us out, everyone got their phones to document what had happened. Colby starts to film an Instagram story.

“Alright, who decided to jump in this elevator?” He asks out loud as he raises his phone to pan over everyone around us. Most of our friends point to Sam and some point at Aryia.

“Okay, I said let’s jump, but I did not,” Aryia confesses. Devyn yells that she thinks it was Aryia.

“Is it your fault?” Colby asks Sam.

“No,” Sam replies in a sarcastic tone. I roll my eyes.

“It was Sam and Aryia!” Kevin exclaims from behind me.

“What?” Sam asks in fake shock, his voice getting higher at the end of the word.

“We’re stuck in the elevator!” Kevin yells to Colby’s phone to which Colby screams in response before ending the story.

We waited for what felt like forever for someone to let us out. Kevin went around asking everyone their weight to see if we exceeded the weight limit on the elevator. After calculating it all up, we were under the limit, thank goodness. Right after that, we heard some rattling coming from the other side of the door. Colby pulled me away from the door as it was pushed back by someone on the other side. We were almost to the ground of the second floor, just raised about two feet above it. We had to get off one by one. Colby went first and then turned around, grabbing me at my hips and setting me down on the ground. The firefighters told us to go ahead and go down the stairs. Colby held my hand as all our friends followed us one by one down the stairs and out the front door of the lobby.

“What a way to end the year,” Colby chuckled as he pushed some fallen hair behind my ear. I giggled at the experience we just had and smiled.

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. We were surrounded by all of our friends with you by my side.” I told him as my hands found their place, clasped behind his neck. His pulled me closer to him until his lips were just inches from mine.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to make it through this party. Not with you looking like this.” He whispered against my lips before he leaned a little bit closer. I pulled away right before our lips met and heard a small pout escape his lips.

“You’ll have to wait until next year. Sorry.”

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Imagine:

Reader/ OC trying to keep her orgasms on the inside because she doesn’t like how she sounds.

This is going to be pretty long and detailed. Figured I could add this bit into an idea I had. I wanted to write it out just like this 😩.First time using an OC. Enjoy lovelies xoxoxo

Hello, it’s your girl Ebony here and you’re listening to The Love Zone. We already have a caller number one on the line...

“Hello?” Élise timidly spoke into the phone while seated in her dimly lit living room. There was a 100% chance of showers that evening and rainy nights were the perfect nights for her. Alone in a home she inherited from her grandmother in Marigny, New Orleans, Élise decided to call The Love Zone on WQUE-FM, New Orleans mainstream urban radio station. Ebony Starr was a famous Sexologist and radio personality from Bywater, New Orleans. She inspired Élise to start her own podcast that she titled Finally Exhaled which discusses overcoming past toxic relationships and starting new ones.

“Caller number one?” Ebony said into the microphone. Her voice echoed since Élise could hear it twice.

“Yes,” she licked some cocoa butter from her lips, “I’m caller number one.”

“Alright, love, do you have a question for me?”

“I’m a huge fan,” she nervously laughs, “Just...I didn’t expect you...to answer my call.”

“You’re so sweet, honey, thank you,” Ebony made Élise smile, “what’s your name?”

“Yolanda,” that was her mother’s name.

“Yolanda, Pretty name. I know a lot of Yolanda’s.”

“Yeah,” she toyed with her long dreaded hair.

“Why are you up so late, Yolanda? No work for tomorrow?”

It was 11:00 pm. She worked as a waitress in a bar and grill but that was just to keep busy. She was an only grandchild left with her grandmothers money. Her Father didn’t like the fact that she got everything. Typical. He wasn’t around so why did it matter to him?

“Work tomorrow evening,” she pondered for a moment, “Now I remember my question.”

Ebony laughs, “go ahead, what’s your question?”

Wiggling her toes at the fireplace she opens her mouth to speak, “How do I overcome being embarrassed by the way I sound when I orgasm and moan? I’m nervous to even ask this question but it’s been bothering me and I just...I don’t like it.”

“Hmm,” Ebony’s smooth hum reassured her, “Why don’t you like the way you sound, Yolanda?”

“It’s-its because I was told it was ugly mainly. My last boyfriend-shitty boyfriend by the way, told me I sounded like a dying animal,” Élise chuckles, “I want to move past that and embrace the way I sound whenever the moment happens for me again but...”

“You’re afraid the next man will find it just as ugly and look at you weird?”

“Yes, ugh,” Élise closes her eyes, “What the hell should I do?”

“Honestly? Embrace it. That sound is a beautiful sound, Yolanda. One of the sounds of love making. When it’s real and sudden like that it makes you stutter out incoherent words and sounds but only a real man, an experienced appreciative man, would love to hear those noises. How old were you when he told you this?”

“I was 20 years old. That was when we first started dating. A start to a long toxic relationship.” She didn’t mean to vent like that but she couldn’t help it. Her ex, Sean, was such an emotional abuser. He shot her down every chance he got to make her feel ugly. That was for four whole years. She was 25 now and wanted to heal from that.

“Oh, that explains it,” Ebony made a noise of disapproval, “See, boys don’t know a thing, honey. I’m happy you’re not in that toxic relationship anymore and there is a man out there that will love every screaming orgasm you have. Especially if he’s the cause.”

“I know you’re right but gosh,” what man anyway? The closest she’s ever come to a man since then was working at that bar and they all were too pushy and drunks. She was loosing all hope honestly.

“Yolanda, when was the last time you had sex?”

“Over a year ago.”

“You’re craving sex heavy, sweetie. You want to give yourself to someone badly and a year can do that. I don’t think it was only the way you sound it’s a trust thing as well. Sean betrayed your trust.

Bingo.

“I’m better now. I can trust but I just don’t know where to start.”

“There is no rush. Let it come to you, honey. Once it does...accept it. Feel it. If you can listen to yourself moan and shout when you orgasm alone then you can definitely do it in front of a man again. I bet you sound angelic.”

Élise blushes.

“I actually heard that smile through the phone, Ebony laughs, “Sweety, let that moan out, snatch a man’s soul, and feed that craving.”

Élise laughs pleasantly, “I really needed this thank you so much, Miss Starr.”

“Please, If you need to talk you could always come to my meet and greets and workshops in The French Quarter.”

“I’d like that,” Élise smiles wide with her high cheek bones, “thanks again, Ebony.”

“Thank you, Yolanda. Enjoy the rest of your evening, love.”

The line disconnected. Élise places her phone on the carpeted floor and thought about their conversation. She was pining for sex. She wanted her year back. A year of no dick or lips on her pussy. Sex toys over used and calling her name as we speak.

Let’s take it slow with some Beyoncé- Dangerously in Love 2...

Baby I love you/You are my life/My happiest moments weren’t complete if you weren’t by my side/You’re my relation/In connection to the sun/With you next to me/There’s no darkness I can’t overcome/You are my raindrops/ I am your seed...

The rain was coming down in sheets, banging against Élise’s rough top like bullets. There was no lightning or thunder. She was glad that she got the lighting in her grandmothers home fixed because if she didn’t the power would be out and Élise did not want to go into that cobwebbed basement to find candles. Last time she went down there she saw a possum. Élise has on nothing but a retro Voodoo Fishing T-shirt while seated in front of the fireplace. She finally stands, the heat of the flames warming her butt before she walked back to the couch where her crinkled copy of Roar of Thunder, Hear My Cry rested on top of a quilt.

She couldn’t sleep and Beyoncé had her singing with her eyes closed. Grabbing her Walt Disney World coffee mug that had lukewarm herbal tea in it, Élise snuggled into the couch while facing a small window just above the heater in her living room.

I hope everyone is being safe on this stormy Friday night. We have another caller on the line, caller number two?

Élise tunes in.

“I’m still unfaithful to my husband. I can’t shake the need to be with the other man. Just tonight I came home after frantic car sex in an open lot. I want to tell him...I want to tell him I’m happy with the other man.”

“Wow,” Élise loves this juicy talk. She could faintly hear Rihanna-Unfaithful play in the background which causes her to giggle. Ebony was hilarious.

Whew, honey, juggling two men?

“SHIT!”

Élise’s head shot up from the couch. The angry shout came from outside. Maybe someone was locked out the house, she thought. Élise covered herself with the quilt further to listen to more of The Love Zone.

You are killing this man. Just tell him the truth. I can hear the pain in your voice. If you want to end this the right way stop stringing him along and communicate...

Thump

A rather loud kick could be heard from outside. Now, her interest was peaked. Élise tosses the quilt back , tiptoeing to the window with her mug still in hand. She could see a little better only because the house had a porch. But it was still foggy. A man was outside with his hazards flashing. He had to have been out there for a minute with how drenched he was messing under the hood of his car. No lightning or thunder. Just the rain, but the rain was more than enough to make the situation extremely uncomfortable.

Élise couldn’t see him that clearly as he hopped in and out of his car every minute or so, probably trying to warm up before trying something else to get his car moving again. Thanks to the street lamp about twenty feet from where he parked she could make out the type of car. A Ford Mustang 2006. It was parked beside a neighbor of hers that she didn’t like at all. His name was Kevin and he was a white supremacist. Nothing new in the South. No family but she could have sworn she heard screams from his house...

“Fuck!” The man shouts again. Élise felt kind of guilty. She had no idea why. She was sure most of her neighbors saw him stranded out there as well. As quiet as her neighborhood is, something out of the ordinary rarely goes unnoticed. However, the fact that the man was still out there struggling on one of the worst nights, weather-wise, of the year didn’t sit right with her. What harm would it be to offer to let him into her home so he could properly make a call for a Tow service or have a nice cup of tea and a hot meal? Loan a flashlight, or let him warm up by the fireplace for a moment?

Élise stares down at what she was wearing again. That retro Voodoo Fishing T-shirt. Élise went to the closet to grab her red longline puffer coat and black Hunter rain boots. She grabs a flashlight from the closet shelf, trying it out to see if it worked. A couple slaps with it to the palm of her hand made the old thing ignite and she was headed for the door. Élise swung the front door open like a women on a mission. She stomps across her front porch and right down the steps, pulling the back of her coat up over her head to keep from getting her dreads wet.

“Excuse me!” She yelled out from the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street from where the man was parked. He looked in her direction, and she could finally make out his soaked face. She was not disappointed.

“Wassup?!” He responded loudly, “This rain is a bitch!”

“Yeah, it is! Do you need some help?! It’s pretty cold out too my place is warm!”

He kept a steady gaze on her from under his hood. He had this look on his face as if that were a bad idea. Now, Élise was regretting it.

“Are you waiting for someone?!” She started up the conversation again. Her legs were so wet now.

“Nah!” He shook his head and from what Élise could make out she saw short dreads fall over his forehead, “Listen, it’s bad out here, sweetheart why don’t you go back inside, huh?!”

“You sure?!” She pointed her flashlight to the house, “My offer still stands if you change your mind!”

“Thanks, I appreciate it, ma!”

Even though it was dark she could see his smile. Damn, he was good-looking. All that out here melting in the rain. Élise turned to run back to the porch only to fall right on the concrete. She felt both her knees hit the ground. She wailed in pain. Her hands planted to the ground and she tried lifting up but her rain boots slipped right from under her. She could feel hot tears prick her eyes.

“SHIT!!! Hey, Ma!” He called out. Élise could hear heavy feet splashing in the flooded streets and then a pair of wet hands grabbing her waist and lifting her all the way up into bridal style. She squinted her eyes up at the nice-looking man with the fucked up car. He started walking back to her porch. He sat her down on an old chained swing chair before removing his black hoodie and tossing it on the swing chair with her. It was probably uncomfortable walking around with heavily soaked fabric. One thing was for sure: he was built. He had on a charcoal gray tee that was hugging his body something fierce. Élise could make out his physique thanks to him being up close and personal now. Then there was those dreads. They fit his rugged look so perfectly. He definitely wasn’t from around here.

“What are you doing out here? It’s bad, sweetheart, you could have cracked your head open on the ground instead.”

She blinked up at him with timid eyes. He softened his stern ones before his eyes closed. His hands finger combed his dreads back before he shook his head to stop the dripping water.

“My bad,” he looked down at her on the swing chair, “you’re probably thinking who the fuck he think he is talking to me,” he laughs awkwardly.

“Not at all,” Élise looked away and down at her lap. He was right. She was so quick to come running to the rescue. It was almost flooded outside.

“Let me see the damage,” He crouches down to look at her knees, “just scraped skin but it needs to be cleaned off.”

His onyx eyes landed on hers before turning back to his car. Élise studies the back of his smooth neck and the curve of his ears. It seemed like forever that he was staring at his car.

“I have everything in my house I can take care of it. Thank you though.”

He turned back with a tilt of his head. His eyes looked up at her house while his fingers lazily drummed on the swing chair.

“My name is Erik.” He reached out to shake her hand.

“I’m Élise,” she grabbed it and noticed some cuts on his knuckles, “looks like you need some help too.”

Erik drew his hand back before covering his knuckles by folding his arms, “Shit, I forgot that was even there.”

“No worries, I’m not afraid of blood.” She clarified.

“You must not be afraid of much talking to a stranger at 12 in the morning in the rain.”

His tone was serious. Élise looked away from him with a shy smile.

“I have a big heart and my shitty neighbors wouldn’t help you out so I figured what the hell I can do it.”

“Not much happens around here, huh?” He asked with attentive eyes.

“No, it’s pretty quiet,” she took in every inch of him with her eyes. The tight charcoal gray shirt was damp and exposing every single muscle. She liked his short dreads, almond colored skin, and long, sexy eyelashes.

“You could have knocked on someone’s door to give you a jump.”

“Ha,” his chuckle was dry, “You don’t answer doors when strangers knock, baby girl. And I don’t trust knocking on doors in this neighborhood. I’m lucky you even stepped out,” he smiled faintly, “like a breath of fresh air.”

“I agree,” she changed it up, “it’s just-“

“Don’t explain yourself. It’s cool,” Erik stands, stretching out the muscles in his arms. His eyes were studying her home with a new found curiosity.

“In this world we live in, you never know what you might find knocking on someone’s door. Most people are suspicious, especially of us black men.”

“True,” she stood with him, wrapping her coat around her, “so...do you wanna come in?”

He licked his lips and placed his hands in his black cargo pants pockets. He looked like he was freezing and she could see his cold breath.

“Erik, I have blankets and dry shirts,” she beemed up at him.

He squinted his eyes playfully at her before his head fell forward with defeat. Success.

“A blanket does sound nice. But, as tiny as you are, I doubt I could fit into one of your shirts.”

Élise thought she saw a flicker of lust in his eyes when he said that. At least, a part of her hoped she saw lust.

“Unless...” He gave her quizzical expression, “your boyfriend got some shirt he left behind.”

Élise blushes, “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

She could tell he was fighting a grin. Élise finally turned to lead the way back into her place, Erik grabbing his hoodie and walking through the door. The second he ended up in there he felt his body defrost and dry.

“Fuck,” he ran his hands over his short dreads, “I’m glad I let my pride down for once and let you help me. A nigga was cold.”

“Uh-Huh,” Élise laughs, “I see your skin warming up, Erik.”

“Oh yeah, I’m nice and toasty now,” He smiles flirtatiously.

“Hungry? Thirsty?”

“Nah, I’m cool.”

“Tow service?”

“Not available and...I’d rather not,” His jaw clenched.

“Well...” Élise shrugs, “looks like you’re staying the night, Erik.”

Erik raised a brow at her before looking around him to get acquainted.

She felt comfortable with him even though he was considered a stranger. Her grandmother would have higher blood pressure than what she already had if she knew what she’d just done. The thought of having some kind of company that night made her feel a lot better and less lonely. Élise finally locks her door and went to her closet to take off her boots and coat. It was all or nothing.

“Closet is free to put your boots and hoodie in.”

She was so damn comfortable around him that she forgot about only being in her T-shirt. Erik stood back with his arms folded watching Élise move and the fabric of the shirt sink in between her ass cheeks. She was sexy for sure. The second she kicked off her boots Erik could see the flesh of her butt... bare flesh.

This girl is serious? He thought.

Ass swinging while she moved. She was a cutie with a nice body. Alone in this big home. All that alone with no man. Shit didn’t make sense. Maybe she was just fucking someone. Erik began walking up to her while she took off her puffer coat to hang. Long slender dreads with shells in it. He wanted to pull on the coarse hair.

“Thanks, Élise,” He was so stealthy that she hadn’t noticed how close he had gotten to her. Elise’s back stiffened and her body tried to step away to give him space but Erik was already taking off his boots and hanging up his hoodie. She caught a whiff of his cologne causing her to nibble on her bottom lip. He didn’t smell like liquor and cigarettes like the men at the bar and grill she worked at. He smelled like rain, sweat, and what she recognized was Gucci Guilty men’s cologne. She remembered that smell from when she was in Macy’s sniffing around in the perfume section. It was intimate and warm at the same time.

“Don’t worry, your blankets will smell like me even when I leave, baby girl.”

She was caught red handed.

“I’m sorry,” she stroked a few dreads from her face, “Your cologne smells really good.”

We’re they really standing in the closet? She dropped the flashlight on the floor when Erik leaned in towards her to smell her now. He was more than comfortable around her. He acted like he knew her.

“You smell like coconut oil,” He gave her a coy smile, “I like that.” Erik crouched down in the small space to pick up the flashlight.

“T-thanks.” Élise licked her dry lips. She needs more cocoa butter.

“So, nice closet,” He teased.

“Yeah...very spacious,” she awkwardly tried to joke back.

Just show me around, ma, since I’m gonna be sleeping here tonight. Unless...you changed your mind?”

He leaned in toward her with a slight raise of his brow and parted lips. He knew he had hers shooken up.

“Yeah, I have a spare bedroom and the couch pulls out into a bed.”

Erik’s eyes trailed up and down her body, “Pull out couch is fine.”

Élise finally let out the breath she’d been holding once Erik stepped away and into her living room. She watched him look around like he was in a museum, staring at her family photos and the art on the walls. Élise has redecorated since moving in two years ago.

“This you?” Erik had a wide smile on his face while pointing to a photo on the ledge of the fireplace. Élise walked over, spotting the photo in question. Oh, yes, when her hair was in a kinky fro, nose piercing, college T-shirt on two sizes too small, tiny denim shorts, and laying in the grass with her ass sitting out and ready to be grabbed.

“Looking like a little rebel,” He picked that photo up studying it with unrelenting eyes. She shuddered.

“Very sexy,” Erik commented and then he gave Élise that look. She turned away from him; she didn’t want him to see the desire in her eyes. She was beginning to have second thoughts about kissing and possibly fucking a complete stranger. No need to deny herself her own thoughts. She’s been thinking that the second he looked up at her from across the street in the rain.

“Where are you from, Erik?”

He placed the picture back on the fireplace ledge, “California.”

Élise was intrigued.

“Why New Orleans?” She followed him to the couch where he started pulling it out into a bed.

“Business,” He kept it short. She didn’t pry further because she sensed that he didn’t want her to know the nature of his “business.”

“How do you like it so far?”

He gathered the bottom of his shirt, bringing it up and over his head while his zealous eyes never left hers, “It’s cool, I’ve been before during Mardi Gras.”

She froze. Was his skin naturally like that? It wouldn’t make since with how neat the bumps were. What would make him do that? He didn’t seem bothered by her eyes taking it all in or the wondering crease in her brow. He wouldn’t tell her, she knew that. The shit was going to eat her alive.

She snapped out of her daze, “I haven’t been to a Mardi Gras since I was 21.”

“Why?” He settles down shirtless on the pullout. His body bathed in the fire. She could feel her tongue tingling to taste his skin. Erik is so sexy.

“It’s so damn wild.”

“Please, girl,” He laughs, “Drunk white people acting a fool ain’t our kind of wild.”

They both laughed.

“When I came that shit was dead i was not partying with them. So, me and a friend hit up some urban spots and listened to some upbeat jazz and ate Cajun food. I met a chick and had some fun with her.”

What kind of fun?

“Sounds a lot better than the time I went.”

Élise stares down at her scraped knees. The crimson peeked through the tiny scratches. Now that her attention was there it was beginning to burn.

“Where’s your bathroom so we can get those cuts cleaned, baby girl?”

Élise pointed to her stairwell, “Upstairs. I can bring it down you don’t have to come with me.”

“Well,” Erik had a roguish expression on his face, “what if I wanna see what upstairs looks like?”

Her wary eyes stared at his wry expression. Erik was definitely being very coy with her.

“You won’t find anything interesting upstairs except for my bedroom.”

Élise’s wistful expression let Erik know without even saying it flat out that she wanted him in her room. He fixed his eyes on her for being that bold with him. She wasn’t so shy. She was a little rebel.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Élise tries to play it off, “I should probably shut up.”

“Let’s go,” Erik stood up, holding his hand out to her. Élise grabs his hand, leading Erik to the staircase and up the creaky steps. It was dark and chilly in the hallway since she didn’t turn on the heat upstairs. She could hear Erik shiver even though his hand was still warm. They made it to her bathroom, Élise turning on the light. She hadn’t changed it around much. Her grandmother still had Élise’s potty from when she was a baby in there. She never let go of things.

“My guess is this house belonged to your grandmother?” Erik finally spoke while standing at the sink.

“Yep. She passed away from breast cancer two years ago.”

“I know how that shit feels, trust me,” Erik opened her medicine cabinet to find a withering first aid kit, “I lost my mom and my dad so I understand.”

Erik motioned for Élise to come to him. When she did he picked her up and sat her on the edge of the sink. Her short yet thick legs swung back and forth reminding her of when she was a child. Erik opened the kit and grabbed some gauze dressing, peroxide, and neosporin.

“You must really enjoy picking me up, stranger,” Élise’s playful eyes sought out Erik’s and the second he smiled revealing those deep dimples in his cheeks she crossed her legs to simmer the heat growing between them. Even the grip she had on the edge of the sing became firmer.

there is a man out there that will love every screaming orgasm you have. Especially if he’s the cause.

Ebony’s words spoke to her again. She was thinking about the sounds she would make if Erik fucked her. He was still shirtless, his cargo pants riding low on his hips showing her that chiseled v-cut of his, and those lashes with his onyx eyes blinked at her like he was trying to read her mind. Lord knows Élise wanted to read his. He was so mysterious and unreadable and that didn’t scare her. It made her want to stake her claim on him. He was visiting New Orleans and maybe she could show him around and they could have some fun of their own. Élise was lonely and friends weren’t enough to fill the void. Not really much family left either. She needed the warmth and comfort of a man.

But Erik looked like the type to break you down piece by piece. She wouldn’t mind him turning her out. Élise didn’t know how long she was staring but Erik’s soft fingers tapping the sides of her thighs broke her out of her dreamy state. Staring down, she could see the fresh gauze covering her wounds. Élise bit into her lip and without being able to control it her high cheek bones puffed out. He made her blush over everything. Why couldn’t he be from New Orleans and not California? Once he left she wouldn’t find another guy around like him. She already crushed on him and she hardly even knew him.

“What did I do to make you blush, pretty girl?”

“What didn’t you do, Erik,” She reaches out for his hands, “let me see.”

He came in closer between her legs, giving her permission to grab his hands and examine his scarred knuckles. It looked pretty bad. Did he beat a brick wall or somebody’s face? She glanced up at him briefly and without saying a word she tended his wounds. His searching expression made her belly flit like butterfly wings. Now, she was rubbing neosporin in carefully. She could feel his eyes leering at her in a sexually suggestive way.

“These are pretty fresh,” she muttered. Élise’s eyes looked from his Adam’s apple bobbing from swallowing spit to his teeth nibbling the corner of his full pouty lip. He didn’t look at her when she said that.

“That’s because they are, Élise,” he says with a low voice. She started wrapping the gauze dressing around his hand. After she was done she didn’t let his hands go. Élise surely didn’t want to. They stood in a comfortable silence and it gave her time to think about his fresh wounds. He didn’t look like the type to go around beating brick walls but faces? That was definitely the answer. And surprisingly, Élise wasn’t afraid. If Erik wanted to rob her or kill her he would have done that already. Instead he was kind to her and he looked at her like he wanted to fuck her. She liked that look a lot.

“Élise.” Erik spoke earnestly.

“Yes?” She said with a soft-spoken voice.

“You’re not afraid of me. Why?”

“Because I know you won’t hurt me.”

She noticed him watching the way her lips moved when she said that. He was admiring the shape of them. Her lips were the perfect proportion. Perfectly symmetrical on the left and the right. Full lips with volume and a plump pout.

“Yeah, baby girl, I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“...but you did hurt someone...”

Erik glides his tongue over his upper teeth, responding but completely ignoring her question, “what if I kissed you right now? That wouldn’t change your mind?”

“No.” Élise said gazing into his eyes.

Erik leans in with his hands bracing the sides of the sink. His lips sparingly touched hers as he spoke. Élise clings to every word while her low eyes stared at his mouth.

“If you lettin’ me put my mouth on yours then you’ll let me put something else on you...am I right?”

Élise has an anxious feeling and Erik wasn’t helping when the flesh of his bottom lip tickled hers every time he spoke. Now, her eyelids were fluttering. Still in nothing but that retro Voodoo Fishing T-shirt and no panties. She wondered if he could smell her arousal towards him.

“Erik-“

“Just answer the question, Élise.”

“Yes, I would.”

“If you’re not afraid of me you would answer my questions,” Erik moved his lips to her ear, his hard chest touching her clothed one. Élise shuddered when his warm breath tickled her ear, “Why are you so comfortable around me with this little ass T-shirt on and no panties?”

“H-How do you know I don’t have on panties?”

“Because,” the hair from his beard touched her neck, “I could see that ass from the back when you were in that closet, ma.”

She hung on to his captivating voice while staring at the side of his neck. Élise was sweating from how turned on she was and he didn’t even kiss her yet.

“That’s what I’m talking about. You act like you know me...what if I would have pulled that shirt up to get a better look at that ass?”

Élise gasps at his words, turning to look at him with alluring eyes. What if he would have done that? He was already so close to her. Now she was imagining him bending her over in that closet and going deep in her pussy from the back. She found that to be very sexy and thrilling. Élise’s grandmother was probably turning over in her grave right now. Her granddaughter letting a strange and clearly very dangerous man into her home and allowing him to seduce her. 

Erik takes his hands to rest on her thighs. He moved them up and down in a slow motion keeping a steady gaze on Élise to see if she would flinch away. No, she was enjoying the firmness of his hands. He knew exactly what he was doing. Élise could feel his fingertips hit the bottom of her T-shirt. Damn...he was so close.

“Élise, you so damn thick, girl.”

“Thank you.” She bit down on her tongue to fight her ugly moan. At least that’s what she thought it was. Her eyes descended when she felt Erik lift the bottom of her shirt. Unhurried and gentle Erik lifts that T-shirt up to reveal Élise’s shaved mound. The phat flesh sat between her plush thighs like a surprise treat.

“Damn, you just letting me do this, huh?”

“Yes,” she let out an airy sigh, “I am.”

“Been too long, ma?” Erik had a wolfish expression on his face, “shit, you nice and phat down there too.”

Erik pulled her shirt back down and Élise’s heart sank before his pillowy lips finally connected with hers so suddenly. Her head almost collided with the mirror from how alarmed she was. Her hands reached up to cup his face while she allowed this man to fuck her mouth with his tongue. She tried to keep up with him but in the end Erik conquered her. His mouth tasted amazing. Now, he was gripping her curvy waist with his forceful hands and practically pulling her into his body. Their heads moved from side to side and their lips smacked and sucked on each other’s. A tiny yelp escaped her mouth when Erik sank his teeth into her bottom lip before drawing back. He licks his lips in one motion all the way around his mouth and Élise was officially hungry for more of him. A man coming in from the rain. A man she would have never expected would be kissing her on her bathroom sink. It was so risky.

“Ahhhh!” She moaned instantaneously. His lips and teeth were on her neck. Shit, Élise actually moaned. Why was she even worried? She actually sounded quite nice. Erik was bruising her skin with the right suction of his lips. If it felt like that on her neck it would feel just as good on her hard nipples and clit. The surface of the sink was moist from her pussy rubbing and gliding along the surface.

“Taste so goddam good, girl,” he flattened his tongue and licked her neck, “so sweet.”

“God, Erik,” she moaned, “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this to me.”

“I can,” He chuckles, “You like that I’m doing this to you. I can tell you’ve been loosing out, ma, got you all sweaty and breathing deep.”

“I just can’t...believe...fuck, Erik.”

His hands grabbed her breasts, circling them and tweaking her nipples through her shirt. He was torturing her at this point. Élise wanted him to rip that shirt off her body.

“You’re driving me crazy,” She whispered, “Erik,” her voice was so hushed and heavenly. The man in question was just as frazzled as her. Panting, a sheen of sweat on his skin, his dick hardening and thickening against her inner thighs.

“Élise...I wanna fuck you.” He grabs her hips to keep her still, “listen to me,” his thumb came up to stroke her dimples chin, “...I wanna fuck you so good, girl. You need to take some good dick.”

“It’s been so long,” she bit into her pouty lip.

“Shit, how long?” He was running his hands through her dreaded strands.

“I feel,” she shivers, “I feel so embarrassed saying it,” Élise’s murmured like she was telling a huge secret.

“You can tell me...don’t be scared, girl.”

“A year,” she closed her eyes.

What the fuck. An entire year. Élise was yearning, longing, craving, and hungry for some dick and attention. Part of Erik wondered if that was one of the reasons why she let him into her home.

“Aye,” Erik soothes her, “that’s a long time, baby girl, but I can help you out with that,” Erik takes her hand to kiss it gently before speaking against her knuckles, “I can make you feel better....”

“Erik.”

“You know you want me to...let me make you feel good...” He kissed her hand again while staring into her eyes. Erik felt her thighs quiver around his waist.

“I got you, ma.”

“Erik,” she kept whispering at him and it had him grunting and painfully hard, “I’m so wet, I can’t believe it...Erik.”

She’s so beautiful. God, Erik needed this right now. He needed her ass.

“Élise, girl, I swear to fucking God-“

“Erik, please, Erik.”

Élise unexpectantly lifts both of her legs to the sink, her entire T-shirt bunched up around her waist now showing Erik all that wet juicy pink. Pussy looking like a wet piece of fruit. A peach drizzled in honey. Tight slit with puffy suckable lips. Erik’s eyes were vicious. He reached out to keep her thighs back since she wanted it that way. Then, in a blink of an eye, he had her pushed back against the mirror with her ass hanging over the edge of that sink.

“Oh? You itchin’ for me, ain’t you? opening up your fucking legs like that. Just telling me I can have it? Girl, I will beat this pussy up right on this motherfucking sink. Fucking playing with me if you want...”

She caved when she saw him spit thickly on her pussy. She drew her lips into her mouth. Élise could feel the saliva practically slap her clit. He was so fucking nasty. She just knew that Erik would have her making all types of noises.

“Still ain’t scared, huh?”

“No.” Her voice shook even though she said no.

Erik’s head went down between her legs. He stuck his tongue out as far as it could go and began licking the underside of her clit back and forth. Élise clenched her teeth, the sounds begging to escape her mouth.

“I don’t hear nothing. If you ain’t afraid why don’t I hear you moaning, baby girl?”

Erik went in again slurping her up and licking in a deadly pattern. She felt him tug on her clit and inner folds. She was ready to cum already.

“Erik, Erik I-Stop it, I’m-Erik, please, please I’m-oh my God you’re-you’re making me-Ooooh you’re making me-“

Like it wasn’t in her own control, Élise moaned as her orgasm erupted from her. Her eyes squeezed shut and the so called animalistic sounds escaped her mouth. She was choking on her moans and she hated that she couldn’t control it but this fucking man...he was eating her. Making up for that year. Every month fueling him to suck and lick on that pussy some more. Even after she came he still covered her with his entire mouth and spit. She waited and waited for him to say she sounded ugly or look at her bizarrely but no. Instead he says...

“Good fucking girl. That’s right, cum in this mouth. Shit, cum all you want, do it, baby girl.”

Thank god for his car breaking down.

“Yes!”

“Uh-Huh, you want some more!”

She nodded her head with vigorously.

“Look at you,” Erik bit his lip while thumbing her clit, “look at you shaking and moaning,” his motions increased, “cumming again? That pussy cummimg for me? she ready to bust for me, Élise?”

“Mmmm, Erikkkk, baybeee!”

“You just keep on going?” He smiled.

“I-I’m sorry,” her body spasmed, “I can make a lot of mess.”

Élise was referring to her squirting habit.

“You can squirt all over Daddy whenever you like,” He inserts two fingers inside of her. She rolled her eyes shut, body vanquished but feeining for more.

“Grabbing my fingers like that? Gon’ head and cum...better yet fuck these fingers. Get you some, ma, pop that pussy on these fingers.”

Her hips lifted to get all of his fingers as he dug deep.

“Ooh...ooh...look at you...got my dick heavy in these pants.”

Élise watched him grab his dick. He was so long. She couldn’t wait to see it. And fuck it. And suck it...

“Damn, shit, I can’t wait to pound that puss.”

She shouted out again, pussy convulsing around his thick fingers. Her throat was raw from how hard she screamed.

“So fucking beautiful. Shit don’t make no sense.”

@tgigoldie @soufcakmistress @chefjessypooh@chaneajoyyy@pananegra@theblulife @becincere @blaqwidow91 @fish-outta-watah@moonlight-night-sky @eyeknowmywrites  @crowngold@njadakillthiscookie@blktinkerbell@luvanxi @sheisexcellent1@chocolatedippedinhoney@brandithecrystalgem@dababydababydababydababy@soulfulbeauty19@btitannaaa@sunkissedebony97 @youngblackndgifted@harleycativy @rbhp@thee-germanpeach @thadelightfulone@bugngiz@palmstreesallday@skylahb @bakaris-shorty @nizzle-mo @truglori @queenflaws @ljstraightnochaser @nickidub718 @vikkidc @thehomierobbstark @rent-emspoons @abluesforlyssa

[londonfog-chan]

Glitter Freeze: Noriaki Kakyoin x Reader

“You’re sure you don’t want to go pumpkin?”

“No mama.”

“Grandpa is going to come and visit us for a while, and... and he’s going to help your brother.”

You turned away from her and shook your head, curling inwards like a fetus.

“No thank you mama. I...”

You paused to cough, sniffling as the chill crept up from your toes into your legs.

“I’ll be ok here.” You insisted.

“Are you cold?!”

You shook your head. You don’t like to lie to your mother but if you don’t now she’ll never leave the house and you won’t be able to try and sleep.

“No mama. I’m fine. You can go on ahead, I’ll just... I’m going to take a nap. Maybe I’ll feel better later. Tell grandpa I love him, ok?”

It takes her a moment longer to hesitate before she closes the door.

As much as it pains your mother to leave you behind on such an occasion, you’re in no shape to leave the house.

You’ve been doing battle with a horrific sinus infection for about three weeks. At first it began with a tickle in your throat, nothing a little tea with honey wouldn’t help. But the more you downed your tea the worse it got. After the tickle came the runny nose. Then the fever. When the cough came your brother steered clear away from you and your mother only began to fret and fawn over you. Nothing worked after a while. Over the counter didn’t do a damn thing because there wasn’t anything prescribed that worked either. For a hot minute the doctor was convinced you were developing the flu because you started shivering, getting cold sweats in your sleep even though your fever only got worse.

Some days it got better. You’d be able to get out of bed and go to school and focus on making up homework, and then that night it would all begin again.

The cold would creep into your fingertips, working its way up your hands as your toes began to tingle with that same feeling, like you’re slowly being lowered into a bucket of ice water. If you’re unlucky that night, it will start to wander further inwards, towards your heart, the only thing keeping you alive is the fact that it seems to stop if you lose yourself to sleep.

Your mother doesn’t return for a long time. Sleep comes, but it’s fitful, full of nightmares. A bout of cold sweats hits you when your dreams take you to thoughts of your brother, mama said he was just staying with friends but you heard her on the phone, telling grandpa in English that he got thrown in the slammer and was refusing to come out. But that’s your brother for you. He’s such a big dumb bitchy meathead nowadays that always picks fights with you, they sometimes escalate into violent screaming matches that your mother has to stop, so it’s no surprise at all that they finally picked him up off the street.

Yet your thoughts are not hateful about him now, because the cold keeps sneaking back into your body. In your delirium, you whine out his nickname. The cold makes you frightened, because it takes every fiber of your being to fight it, and the only person with enough fight for both of you is him. It never used to be this awful with him. When you both were younger, he always took care of you when you were scared. Now that you’re sick with something nobody has a solid diagnosis for he could give two shits.

“Bubba...” you whimper softly in your baby English into your pillow. “Want my Bubba Jojo...”

But your “Bubba” doesn’t come. You lay like that for hours, tiptoeing the line between wakefulness and sleep until you hear your screen door open.

“Hey beautiful.” You know that low voice with the accent anywhere. “How’s my best girl? Mama said you weren’t feeling that well.”

“How are you feeling sweetie?” Your mother follows in right behind.

Now you know if you make one misstep with your Grandpa Joseph, you’ll never get any peace. You steel your nerves and turn in the covers, managing a tired smile.

“Sick as a dog.” You whisper. “Hi grandpa. Don’t get too close, I don’t want you to catch it.”

He laughs and kisses your cheek, could care less about catching what you have as he tells you he’s going to be staying for a few days, just to make sure you’re back on your feet and to ensure that your brother is staying on the straight and narrow.

“Won’t you like that honey?” Your mother coos, tucking a strand of hair out of your face. “It will be so nice to have Mama and grandpa taking care of you won’t it?”

“You’re staying here a few days? Shit,” you laugh at the face your grandpa makes when your delicate little sick girl facade drops. “Be prepared to die here old man, tell grandma to come relocate. How did it go in the slammer? Did Bubba get to be somebody’s bitch?”

Grandpa Joseph inhaled sharply and uses that tone of voice when he says your name, scolding you for cursing in front of your mother. She only joins in your laughter, saying that you’re just joking and you have a very unique sense of humor. It makes you laugh harder, and it’s when that laugh turns into a cough that the both of them are instantly on you, asking if you’re alright. Wondering if you’d like to take some water or try some medicine your grandfather has for you.

“I don’t want anything. I’ll be ok.” You insist.

“But you haven’t eaten all day baby.” Your mother insists. “Don’t you want to try and have something?”

“Mm...” the thought of having to gulp down more okayu makes your stomach turn and the cold just creep more over your hands, going up to your wrists. “No... I don’t think I can stomach anything right now. I feel dizzy. I just want to go to sleep.”

“Would a hot water bottle help baby?”

“I don’t... maybe?” You don’t want to start getting riled up with your grandpa, not with the way he keeps looking at you.

“I guess I can try it, thank you grandpa.” You relent to the hot water bottle, letting them both kiss your clammy cheek and hearing them mutter in English as they leave the room. It’s nice to be fawned over, you decide, but it would be even nicer if maybe your brother would come. Just one time.

A little while after the two leave, you can hear footsteps wander down the hall to your room. They hesitate at the door before moving on, you hear an annoyed huffing sound as they disappear down the corridor.

Weird... you think. Wonder what the hell that was about?

...

That night, you feel as though you’re going to die.

The hot water bottle they gave you feels like a block of ice pressing against your tummy, when you kick it away you hear a thud as your foot tries to curl back under the multitudes of blankets you have piled on top of you. As much as you try to fight it back out of you, the cold doesn’t stop it’s journey at your wrists and ankles. You can feel icy fingers ghosting over your tummy, frost on your limbs as your breath steams weakly in the cocoon of blankets. It’s trying, and it might succeed, in piercing your heart with a shard of ice. You cannot get warm. You’ve felt your forehead so many times that the fever has gone down to the same frigid temperature of your palm. Sometime during the night your coughing ceases, the feeling of the icy hand closing over your throat as a breeze blows over your neck, chilling you to the core. A frigid breeze invades the sanctity of your blankets.

Where’s your mommy? Where’s your grandpa?

God help you, where’s your brother?

Minutes turned into hours. The night into day. The day into eternity.

You make no sound as you suffer throughout the night and into the morning. The smells of breakfast invade your nostrils and you have to steady your breathing because the icy breeze is even invading your lungs when you inhale. When the smell of food fails to rouse you out of bed, mother knocks once on your door to make sure you’re ok, but leaves when you make no response. As she walks away you can hear the smile in her voice as she says to herself “finally she’s getting some rest”, but you want to scream for your mommy like a toddler. You want her to burst in with your grandpa, so that they can do something. Anything...

But the hands that have been ghosting over your body suddenly clamp tightly over your mouth, cold exuding from your body until even the blankets feel like sheets of ice. A whisper in your ears makes your shaking even worse, the hands caress your cheeks and you feel the icy kiss of winter on your neck.

As the others go about their day, shouting and talking in the other rooms of your house, you’re resigned to dying of the cold.

You’ve lost all sense of time, dying in your room slowly as the hands stroke over your body possessively. You get the sense that you’re alone, yet very much not alone. Something is most certainly in the room with you, but it’s very presence isn’t comforting in the slightest. Whatever it is, it’s resigned to wanting you all for itself. Pulling you into a sleep-like death, a stasis where you’re neither here nor there, a paradox, the only thing you feel is that bitter cold that makes the memories of all your springtimes and summers fade away. Everyone is on your mind: mother and her soft blonde locks sweeping against your cheek when you sought the comfort of her warm breast, the security of four pairs of arms encircling you in the loving embrace of your grandparents...

Even... even the comforting warmth of your brother, your father’s replacement in your childlike heart. It’s all fading away as the hands wrap around your shoulders.

You belong to the cold. To the winter.

They say when a person begins to die of hypothermia, there’s a singular moment in which the cold begins to disappear. Replaced by the most inviting and glorious warmth imaginable. Like the tropical winds of an island breeze coming to melt the eternal winter away. Convinced that you’re going to die alone of the cold in your room, that seems like such a bunch of bullshit lies that school children tell each other in the playground.

You’re shocked to feel a source of heat touch your shoulder.

The touch is tender. Like a lover. Through the dark cold that envelops you, your sight is gone, but the sense of touch is starting to thaw. The hands of ice grip you tightly. Don’t want to let you surrender to the heat that steadily grows, and it’s determined to fight to the death to keep you where it wants you.

You feel more warmth, tendrils wrapping around your legs and body as the touch envelopes you. It’s like the same lover taking your hands up in their own, blowing heat to the paralyzed appendages to bring them back to life. This warmth, this feeling... it’s not a thing like the embrace of your family that you’ve been craving. It’s so tender. So sincere... trying hard to pull you back from the kiss of winter with steaming kisses placed along the nape of your neck. You lean into the kisses, languid groans leaving your mouth as a hot tongue licks teasing stripes from your nape to your earlobe. It’s enough to make the wintry hands reach for your neck, trying to silence the cries you’re making in a frightening display of desperation. It doesn’t want to let you go. You’ve been burning up with fever for so long, it must keep you safe in the cold...!

And then the lips meet yours. Hot summer heat, a comforting love that tastes like the relief of a hot drink on a cold winter’s night.

The icy hands loosen their grip before pulling away completely, still ghosting over your skin until they fade away.

It all goes downhill from there. The cold retreats out of your body from the heart outwards, toasting your limbs and making droplets of sweat (or melting ice?) drip thickly down your skin. Feeling returns to your torso, thence to the shoulders and hips, thence to the limbs, thence to your hands and feet. Finally, after what seems like years, feeling returns to your fingers and toes, and you wiggle them gratefully.

You can hear someone keening your name. It sounds so sweet to hear, they beg for you to open your eyes with such a kind tone that you can’t help but to oblige them.

Amethyst eyes are centimeters away from your face, making you lost for the slightest moment as you gaze deeply into them. Everything slowly comes into focus. His pale skin, fiery red hair, the faces of your mother and grandfather, the scowl of your brother, and an unfamiliar man. All are crowded around the stranger who you come to realize is holding you ever so closely.

“You’re finally awake.” He smiles, relief in his charming voice. “Good morning.”

You’re speechless again, only this time, it’s not the icy fingers still trying to silence your voice.

[darklymelanatedstories]

Dance with my mother (ft Trunks)

"What do you mean you can't?!",father shouted, his fist clenched with her necklace in it.

"I'm so sorry but I can't. It's against the Grand Priest's orders.",Shenron said, he looked truly sorry that he couldn't do anything. Grand Priest forbid the Dragonballs from bringing someone back to life until all the Super Dragonballs were found. Sounded pretty suspicious to me. But what did I know. I was a kid.

"Damnit Shenron!!" My father slammed his fist onto the ground, breaking half of the lookout in the process. He held back otherwise it would've been obliterated.

He couldn't hold it back anymore. He broke into tears. I ran over to him, tears also running down my cheek, and for the first time in forever, I embraced him. At first he pushed me away but I guess he needed a reminder of her so he pulled me back. We were on our knees crying. Fxck Saiyan pride. It didn't matter.

He didn't care about his pride at that moment, he didn't care that everyone saw him at his most vulnerable. What he cared for most was gone. My mother was gone. And she wasn't coming back.

~

It's been 4 years since the incident and to be honest we still weren't coping but we survived.

To be honest I think the only real reason we tried to keep it together was because of Bulla. My spoilt, little sis. Daddy's princess. I remember how I was disappointed when I found out I was getting a sister but now seeing her blue hair, pretty eyes and fascination with my mothers old tools, it just reminded me of mom. She was a little version of my mom. Stubborn, beautiful and smart...even for a baby.

I was babysitting my little sis and she ran off somewhere when I wasn't looking.

"Not again." I sighed.

I went around our large house to look for her and finally reached my parents old room. Father doesn't sleep there anymore. Too many memories that it hurt him to wake up with my mother not next to him.

I quietly entered and found the little troublemaker playing with my mothers old CDs. I quickly grabbed them before she could damage them. Big mistake.

She burst out crying and I didn't know how to calm her this time. So in panic of getting a huge scolding and maybe a "discipline" from my father, I quickly put it in her CD player and played it. On it came one of her favourite old songs by this one artist. Luther I think. Luther Vandross, Nothing better than love.

Even though she's ahead of the times, my mom found nothing more enjoyable and nostalgic than playing an old song her parents listened to when they were teens.

Immediately Bulla calmed down as she listened to the music. I lifted her up and started swaying to the beat. Usually I would hate listening to this but I felt connected to my mom when I did. It reminded me of the times we'd dance together.

When I'd dance with her. How I'd love to dance with my mother.

All the memories came flooding back. When my mom's favourite song would play and she get us to dance, and force my dad to as well, though I could tell he enjoyed it.

Family bonding, she'd call it.

I danced with little Bulla in my arms. She smiled and giggled which warmed my heart a bit. Dang, I become such a softie when I'm around her.

Unfortunately our moment was ruined when an angered force entered. Father.

The music stopped and my heart sank.

"What are you doing?",he asked angrily.

"I–I was just, Bulla got–"

He held the disc in his hand and I could see and those emotions he bottled up were ready to be set free.

"Get out!",he yelled, startling Bulla. The poor thing started sobbing which broke my father's heart. His eyes told me.

He sighed. "I'm sorry. It's just–"

"It's okay, dad. We'll leave.",I said as I headed to the door trying to calm Bulla. "Come on sis, let's go watch SpongeBob."

The mere mention of his name perked her up.

I heard my dad sigh and the door shut. I turned around but he was nowhere to be seen.

"He finally went into the room."

~

As Bulla and I were watching her favourite ridiculous show, I heard something. Something breaking.

I put her down on the carpet and ran towards my mother's room. I listened outside the door.

It reminded of the days I would do so when he locked himself in there. When he was tired of being vulnerable in front of people and just needed to be alone to let out his sadness.

I heard something else break.

No.

I kicked the door down and lunged myself at him to stop him from destroying a framed picture of our family on vacation. My mother looked especially beautiful, like always. I grabbed the picture from him.

"Stop!",I yelled.

My father's eyes were red and a bit puffy but I tried to ignore that. He bared his teeth in anger.

"Boy!!" He raised his hand and I shut my eyes preparing for impact. He's never been violent with me before, it's the first he's even raised a finger at me. I guess he finally broke. And you know what? I was gonna take it.

He brought down his hand and muttered an apology before leaving.

I looked at the picture frame in my hand and realised I crushed it by accident. Tiny shards of glass fell onto the floor in slow motion. The picture was still okay. That what mattered.

If I could get another chance, another step, another dance with her. I'd play a song that would never end.

"How I'd love to dance with you again, mom."

~

I just put my lil'sis to bed and my father was nowhere to be seen. I understood his pain. There's a reason Saiyans were raised with little love and emotion.

I went to my room early. Today was too much. My emotions were killing me. And I was only 12. Where have the years gone?

I played the CD I saved, in my room and shut the door.

I let myself fall onto the bed and listened to another song by Luther Vandross. Dance with my father.

The title and song needed tweaking for me.

I decided to rest my eyes a bit and enjoy the music.

~

I opened my eyes to another familiar setting. The lookout. Shenron was in front of me with the grand priest.

I was on my knees, tears in my eyes. Next to the Grand Priest was my mother. My dear mother. I tried to stand and grab her but it was as if I was stuck to the ground.

"Why are you here child?",the Grand Priest asked.

"I want–I need my mother back. Please!",I begged. "Me, my father, Bulla. We need her. Our family isn't the same with my mother."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. For you see–"

"I know, damnit!!!",I shouted.

"My, my, what a feisty child.",Grand Priest said. "Just like your mother."

"I'm not asking for much." Tears started flowing to my eyes. "Could you just bring back the only woman he ever loved? Please. Dear Lord he's dying...to dance with my mother again."

The grand Priest tilted his head and tapped his chin.

"Hmm.",he hummed. "No."

My sadness turned to anger. I turned Super Saiyan as I tried to attack him but I was stuck. "Damn you!!"

"If I could get one final step, one final walk, one final dance with her...",I whispered. But a miracle happened. He heard me.

"Very well then."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "What? Really?! But–"

Before I could continue, I heard my mother's voice as she ran over to me. And as if the weight of what was holding me down was lifted, I got up and ran towards her. She hugged me and I felt compelled to keep her in my arms.

"I'd play a song that would never ever end." I looked my mom I'm the eyes. "Because I'd love to dance with my mother again."

She wiped a tear from my cheeks, her eyes starting to water. "Don't cry mom.",I whispered. I was so happy. She was here again.

As if on cue the music started playing. Yep you guessed it. Luther Vandross. I felt a bit obsessed with him.

I started dancing with my mom enjoying every moment until I felt an arm on my shoulder. I looked back to see my father with Bulla in his arms. I took Bulla in my arms and watched as my parents danced together. Like the good old days.

I hoped this song would never end.

Thing is...

It did.

Once it did, everything went dark. My mother vanished and my father turned to dust. I reached for my sister but the closer I got, the further she did.

I let out a scream and before I knew it...

~

I woke up. It was a dream. The same yet different. The songs never did play forever. Which was weird because this time I put it on repeat. I sat up and went to check on the CD. It was gone.

"He needs it more than me."

I went back to bed and thought about my dream. We were happy, after so long. But it never lasts. It never did.

Everytime I fall asleep, this is all I ever dream.

[7official7moose7]

Part four.

Sorry if this is sloppily written, It was really late when I wrote this and I was just all over the place at that time lol.

TW: Angst, nightmares, big fluff, the usual. LOTS of Sastiel content this time.

Sam had finally fallen asleep.

It was 3:11 a.m.

He had finally fallen asleep after staring at the clock on the wall as it ticked slowly, reminding him that he’s wasting all these seconds in life just to exist.

But as he did fall asleep, he also fell back into the sea of worries just waiting to drown him in his sorrows.

…

It was like fire coursing through his veins.

Sam finally made it to the surface, but now it was an ocean, and he was in the middle of it. There was a horrible storm overhead, and the waves tossed him and pushed him under and he choked, struggling to keep breathing.

There was no land for miles. Rain poured down hard and cold, and the clouds rumbled and flashed above him. Sam was pushed back under, the water filling his lungs but he wasn’t dying. He was in immense pain, and the water did nothing to help it.

He screamed for Dean, and then Cas. Then Jack. and then someone, anyone who could hear. He yelled until his voice went raw and hoarse, and he could yell no longer. He was enraged, he was terrified and he was exhausted. 

Sam scrabbled at the waves desperately, clawing and flailing furiously. He tried so hard, but all it did was drag him down deeper. 

He began to lose strength, and he began to freeze. He coughed and sputtered and cried out, but it was no use. He was in the middle of the ocean, stranded, freezing and dying.

He was dying.

Either it was hypothermia or his body began to shut down altogether, because he could feel his arms and legs going completely numb, and soon, he could not move his feet. Then his legs gave out.

He was staying above water only by his arms, which were losing the ability to function as well. Thunder rumbled above Sam like a freight train, and he knew it would be the last sound he heard before his final breath took over.

But not yet.

Sam was still fighting. His fingers were completely paralyzed, along with his legs and feet. 

Soon, it reached all the way to his elbows, and he could not move at all.

But not yet!

Even as he was sinking, Sam held his breath and shut his eyes tight. He would make it until he could not possibly make it any longer.

Sam tried so hard, but he simply couldn’t hold it for as long as he’d liked.

But.. Now it was time.

Sam let himself breathe in, he let himself drown in the deep, dark water.

And as he slipped away into darkness, he watched the fish scatter away as he sunk. He heard nothing but the sound of thunder rumbling overhead. He felt his heart stop beating in his frozen chest, for one final time. 

…

Sam jolted awake, his eyes streaming and burning. He breathed heavily and his throat was raw and dry, as if he’d been screaming all night.

He sat up, feeling dizzy and hot. He looked beside him, as if someone would be there, waiting for him. He sighed, closing his eyes.

It was just a dream, of course.

He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his face with his sleeve. He sat on the bed for a second longer before getting up for some water.

And as he poured it, he looked to the motel door.

A short walk wouldn’t hurt, right?

Sam took a sip of his water (hoping it wouldn’t go to his lungs instead, which it didn’t) and poured the rest out. He grabbed his coat, slipping it on over his black tee. He considered changing out of his long gray pajama pants, but then decided against it. He’d just be out for a little bit, who would be awake at this hour anyway?

He slid into his tennis shoes and grabbed the keycard, unlocking the door and creeping out. He shut it quietly behind him and wandered down the sidewalk.

Sam took a deep breath, no water included, and jammed his hands into his pockets. He sniffed; the air was cold when he breathed in. It was cold season, but Sam was sure he would be fine. His teeth chattered just a bit, but he didn’t mind, as long as he wasn’t drenched in ocean water. Or any kind of water, for that matter.

He looked up at the stars, and how they twinkled effortlessly.

I wish it were that easy. Lucky stars.

And as he watched the stars, he thought of Castiel. He smiled softly as he began to feel warm and fuzzy inside. His face grew red just thinking about him. Or maybe it was just the cold. Am I getting sick?

His mind began to wander as he wandered in reality, traveling endlessly through the maze of thoughts coming and going. But, even now, Sam’s mind was like a traffic jam. Sometimes he thought all at once, sometimes he didn’t think at all. And when he didn’t think at all, he made bad decisions.

In one lane, his thoughts and emotions were racing past. In the other, his other thoughts and emotions stayed stuck, because there had been an accident up ahead.

The accidents were his conflicts. Like when he was seeing Lucifer, all he could think about was Lucifer and when he would get out of this mess. Like you do in a traffic jam. All you think about is what’s happening up the road and if you’ll ever get out of it.

Sam kept walking, kept thinking. The world was quiet, listening. He felt weak and achy, and his hands were clammy and trembling. But he overlooked it. I’m not sick.

And once Sam reached a dead end, he turned around and began walking back.

He wondered what he’d do if Cas ever found out. About his feelings, that is. Dean knew, Jack sort of knew, hell, even Jody knew. And Sam knew he was being obvious. He just didn’t want to say anything.

Because the night Jess died, Sam promised her and himself that he would never fall in love again, for her sake.

As he rounded the corner back to the parking lot, Sam thought back to the night she died. The scene of her on the ceiling replayed in his mind, and he felt his breath hitch. He shivered.

Sam didn’t care if he looked like shit right now. He didn’t care that he sounded pathetic, and he didn’t care that he heard the sound of angel wings flapping behind him.

Wait, angel wings?

Sam turned around, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve.

“Sam? What are you doing up this late?” Cas asked as he walked towards the Winchester. Sam stuttered a bit.

“I-I just.. Had another weird dream. Decided to take a walk, get some air.” he said, now caring a lot that he looked like shit. He fixed his hair behind his ear and blushed. “Sorry,” he laughed a little. Cas smiled softly.

“It’s alright, don’t apologize,” he said. Cas thought about telling Sam he was cute, but decided against it, because he knew it would make it awkward. But then he made a face.

Suddenly, Cas’ hands were on Sam’s cheeks, and he blushed.

“C-Cas, what are you-”

“You’re very hot, Sam.”

Sam flushed redder. “Uh, w-what?” he sputtered.

Cas blinked as he put his hands down. “Is that not the term?” he asked, but then realized what he had just said sounded like something else. Now, Castiel was blushing too. “Oh. I-I meant it as in temperature. My bad.” 

Way to not make it awkward, Castiel. Great job.

Sam was still processing, but nodded. The angel thought for a second before speaking again. “We should go inside. You need some water, and you need to cool down,” he said, and grabbed Sam’s hand. They appeared in the kitchen area, and when they landed, Sam stumbled like earlier, feeling dizzy. He gripped Cas’ shoulder to steady himself.

The angel looked to the lamp on the table and switched it on, its light illuminating the room enough to where he could see, but was dim enough not to wake Dean and Jack.

“Can’t you just heal me?” Sam asked, sitting down as Cas poured him another cup of water and set it down in front of him. “No, I can only heal physical injuries, not fevers. Now drink your water,” he said, grabbing and dampening three paper towels. 

I’m not sick, dammit!

Sam reluctantly did as told, and rolled his eyes as Castiel placed two on his wrists and one on his forehead. “That should reduce your temperature,” he said, taking a seat beside him. There was a long pause. Neither of them said a word, until Cas finally broke. 

“Sam, you’re not alright,” he said. “Even Jack knows that.”

Sam looked at him, agitated. “Yes, I am, Cas. If this is about last night, I was drunk. I had no idea what I was saying,” he lied. “Just stop worrying about me. I’m fine, really-”

“No, you are not. You’re so stressed that you’re running a fever, Sam.” 

“I’m not running a fever, you’re just overreacting,” Sam said, but immediately felt sorry. Castiel blinked. “Sorry,” the Winchester muttered.

There was silence, but then the angel said quietly, “You can’t lie to me, Sam.”

And Sam stared at the angel for a moment, a mix of emotions crossing his face. He wanted to tell Castiel everything, not just that he was stressed. He wanted to spill all of his thoughts and emotions right here, right now. But he couldn't. It would be too weird, and he didn’t want Cas to think he was a whiny sissy.

But as he thought this, Cas seemed to hear. He placed a hand softly onto Sam’s, as he did the other night, and looked him in the eye. Holy Chuck, Sam hated when he looked at him like that.

“Sammy, listen to me. You don’t have to be afraid to tell me how you feel. You need to vent at some point, it’s unhealthy for humans to keep to themselves too much.”

And at that point, Sammy broke down.

It started out as small tears, but then Castiel embraced him, and he began to sob quietly. He clung to the angel for dear life, apologizing and sniffling repeatedly. Castiel only shushed him, as if he was a child, petting his hair and whispering soft, reassuring words to him.

“I feel awful, Cas,” Sam breathed out. The angel only hugged him harder, feeling tears prick at the corners of his own eyes. “I know, I know. You’re okay, though. It will all be okay.”

“I-It’s so.. H-hard to keep this up,” he cried. Castiel nodded. “I know, I’m sorry,” he whispered.

This was not like Sam at all. This was a side of him that he never let show, only once to Dean, and that was when Jess died. He didn’t expect Sam to break so quickly around him, but Castiel sort of felt relieved knowing that. He hadn’t opened up properly in years, but he felt like he could trust Cas. 

He knew he could trust Cas. 

Once Sam had calmed down a bit, Castiel pulled away and looked into his red, puffy eyes again. They were glossy and sad, but there was a spark of relief somewhere in the hazel ocean.

Castiel wiped Sam’s tears away with his thumb, and Sam hiccuped. His hair was a mess, his face was red and his throat was scratchy. But Castiel didn’t care one bit.

“I’m s-so sorry, Cas, I-”

“It’s fine, Sam. It will dry,” he said, referring to his tear-soaked shoulder. The Winchester closed his eyes and leaned against Castiel, still sniffling and shaking. Cas held him, running his hand through Sam’s hair while he breathed.

“C-Cas?” Sam said hoarsely.

“Yes, Sam?”

“Can I ask you something?”

Castiel nodded.

“D-do you ever feel like.. Like you can’t breathe?” he asked, “L-like you’re drowning, but.. In your own fears?”

Castiel felt a pang in his grace. He was silent for a second.

“..Yes,” he started, “When I was in heaven, before I met all of you. I had so many responsibilities up there, and I felt stressed. It was very unlike an angel to be stressed about their duties, but I wasn’t created like the others.

“I was afraid of the other angels. I was afraid of how they would react when I told them that I felt that way,” he paused, taking a breath, “And so, I began to cause trouble.”

Sam looked down. “You were.. trying to get out of doing your job. Because you felt like you weren’t cut out for it,” he whispered. The angel nodded slowly.

There was silence for a while, and then Cas proceeded.

“Is that what you dreamt about on the way here? The drowning?”

Sam nodded reluctantly. “And before I went for a walk. The weird dream I said I had? It was worse. I went out so I could breathe.”

“You were drowning in water?”

“Yeah, the first dream was a lake. This one was an ocean, and the waves kept pushing me under. I-It was storming.”

“Oh,” Castiel said, but then Sam’s breath hitched again. He looked down, and there were tears forming in the Winchester’s eyes again. They were tired.

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t mean to worry you-”

“Sam,” Cas said, pulling him closer, “It’s alright. Yes, I am worried, but it’s because I care about you. I love you, all of you. I’m supposed to worry.” he grabbed Sam’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Sam tried to squeeze back, but he was just too tired. He managed a small smile, though. A ‘thank you’.

Castiel felt the Winchester’s warm breath slow. He was still and quiet, but he sniffed from time to time.

The angel smiled, knowing Sam had fallen asleep on his shoulder. He fixed his hair, tucking it behind his ear, revealing his peaceful yet blotchy red face. He looked so weak at that moment, and it made Castiel’s grace shatter into pieces.

So, as carefully as he could, the angel took the paper towels off and disposed of them. His temperature had gone down a lot. He took Sam in his arms and carried him to the bed. He placed him down and fixed his hair one more time before leaning down and giving Sam a small peck on the temple. 

He turned to go, but Sam still had a grip on his trench coat sleeve, and it didn’t look like he was letting go.

Cas smiled softly. Alright, then. 

He climbed into the bed next to Sam, and he immediately felt warm and fuzzy inside. 

Sam seemed to as well, for he smiled in his sleep and his grip loosened. He sighed in content as the angel held him close again. He felt safe, he felt loved.

He felt at home.

[blackreaders-assemble]

Hypnotized

Jim Gordon x black!reader

Warning ⚠️: nah.

Requested by anonymous: Jim Gordon and Girlfriend reader who gets captured by Jervis Tetch and makes her fall in love with him and Jim has to save her

A/N: sorry if the ending is a bit rushed, my phone is dying. Enjoy! ❤️

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

"Do you really have to go?" I whined to Jim.

"Yeah, Harvey found more information about the killer; that means we're one step closer to catching them," he told me as he was getting dressed.

I nodded my head and sighed.

"Okay I understand."

"I'll be back as soon as I can." He came over to the bed a kissed me goodbye. I hate it when he has to leave in the middle of the night but he's one of the best detectives this city has so I get it.

I decided to go into the kitchen and make some coffee to keep myself awake and wait for him to return. I sat on the counter and toyed with my phone while waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. The doorknob began jiggling and I assumed it was Jim coming back because he forgot something.

"What did you forget this time?" I chuckled. When he didn't say anything I looked up from my phone and gasped. Standing in front of me was Jervis Tetch, the man that Jim was currently trying to catch.

I jumped down from the counter and grabbed the large knife.

"Don't you dare come any closer," I threatened.

He smiled at me and took a step closer, "Don't worry, my dear, you have nothing to fear."

My heart was pounding and my hands began to shake but I kept a firm grip on the knife handle. He took another step forward and I raised the knife, ready to defend myself. He pulled out a pocket watch and opened it.

"Look into my eyes."

I made the mistake of doing what he said. I felt like I couldn't move but my body was completely relaxed. It seemed as if I was about to fall into a deep sleep. Jervis got directly in front of me and caressed my cheek.

"When you wake up, you'll love me."

That was the last thing I heard before I became unconscious.

**

I woke up in an unfamiliar room but that didn't bother me much. All I wanted to do was see Jervis; I have a strong urge to be near him. As if he read my mind, Jervis came into the room and sat on the bed.

"Good morning, beautiful," he spoke. His voice was so soothing and I wanted to hear him speak more.

"Morning, Jervis."

I leaned over and lightly kissed his cheek. Before I could move away, he grabbed the back of my neck and gave me a chaste kiss on the lips. We both pulled away at the same time then stared longingly into each other's eyes. My heart was filled with so much adoration for this man. Way deep down I knew it was wrong but I didn't really understand why.

"Come, my dear, you must be starving," he said then held out his hand. I took his hand and he lead me out of the room and down a flight of stairs. We entered a dining room where breakfast was waiting for us. He pulled out a chair for me then took the seat across from me.

"I love you."

The words came tumbling out of my mouth before I could stop myself. My eyes widened and my face became warm. He chuckled and shot me a grin, it looked almost smug and full of mischief.

"I know, I feel the same way."

Just then I heard gunfire and yelling. Jervis swore under his breath then jumped over the table and grabbed me. The dining room doors were kicked open, Jim and Harvey walked in.

"GCPD, everybody down!" Jim yelled.

The maid and butler got on the ground and kept quiet. My heart leaped when I saw Jim and it just confused me further. Jervis held me tightly, my back against his chest.

"Why so grim, Jim?" He mocked.

"Let her go, Tetch," Jim demanded, holding his gun tightly, ready to shoot at any moment.

"I'm pretty sure she doesn't want to be let go. Right, Y/N?"

I turned my head to look up at Jervis then I locked eyes with Jim.

"Right," I said confidently. "I want to stay here.

I felt a pang of regret in my heart when I saw the look of hurt and betrayal cross Jim's face. Then they were filled with rage.

"What the hell did you do to her?"

Jervis laughed loudly and like a lunatic. "I did the right thing, Jim. You don't deserve her, you never did."

"You are so sick," Harvey chimed in.

Both of them inched forward, ready to shoot if necessary. Jervis took a step back, bringing me along with him.

"Just leave us be!"

"Snap her out of whatever weird ass trance you have her in!"

I felt Jervis' grip on me loosen then he fell to the ground. I looked behind me and saw another cop with his gun in Jervis' face. Jim ran over to me and lightly grabbed my face to get me to pay attention to him but I couldn't. I tried pushing him away from me.

"Get away from me!" I screamed, "I want to be with him!"

Jim held onto me and glared at Jervis. "Snap her out of it, Tetch!"

Jervis and I locked eyes and he looked defeated, "Y/N, wake up." He clapped his hands twice and I felt like a weight was lifted off of me. Jim brought my attention back to him.

"Y/N?"

I leaned forward and captured his lips for a quick second.

"Hi, Jim," I whispered. He pulled me in a warm, tight embrace and breathed in my scent.

"I thought I lost you." He sounded so exhausted.

Harvey came over a moment later and clapped Jim on the shoulder. "Everything alright over here?"

"Yeah, Harv, everything's good," I responded.

He nodded once, "Good to have you back, kid. We're gonna go ahead and send this loony to Arkham."

"Alright, I'll be with you in a moment," Jim said.

I watched as they slapped the handcuffs on Jervis and put him in the back of a truck. I couldn't help but feel a little heartbroken.

**

REBLOG & COMMENT

[cantolopejeevas]

An Effort in Fatality

So! Last night during mine and @ask-thehappykids DnD session, an interesting thing happened with my boy Mortar! And I thought I’d write a little fic about it~ For context, this happens during the Death House mini campaign! Near the end, too, so there’s spoilers for that, haha.

Everything was dark. And weightless. Like being in a mix of water and air. The only thing Mortar could feel was a steady beat inside him. Like clockwork. Some part of him was soothed by it, another part terrified. But he didn’t know why. Didn’t care.

“Michael?”

He jolted at the familiar voice. A low, sweet rumble, over a decade in the past. It made him feel so small. Mortar wasn’t small. Not like this. But he couldn’t resist the feeling, reached out for it with whatever he could, struggled to push forward through the weight of existing. It was torture, pure torture. No teeth to grit, no voice to snarl with, no eyes to see. What was he, if not his body?

But he could feel himself getting closer. An edge approached, the feeling of arms reached forward to embrace him, colors sprang forth, blue and gold, a sweet soft whisper of his name, his true name, filled him with something warm and powerful. He was ready to give in, let this light consume him, give up the shadows he’d been cloaking himself in for so long. The beating inside him slowed to a crawl. Tired, he was so tired and he never knew it.

Two small hands wrenched him back into cold existence.

Suddenly he was himself again. Hands, feeling, a body, senses, this was him. He blinked, and found himself back in the last place he remembered. The room of the Durst kids: Rosevalda and Thornboldt.

The swinging pendulum crossed his vision. And just beyond it was a crying, screaming, horrified Cookie. The group around him looked on with terror too, Avery and Daniyal gasping, Rory’s head cocked and mouth twisted to the side, Andy and Snail both with wide eyes, slack from their tense fighting stances. Even Megan didn’t have her resting bitch face.

“I’m okay!” he assured, hands held out. Did his voice sound weird? Fuck it. “Cookie, look! I’m fine!”

“He can’t hear you.”

Mortar jumped at the familiar voice and turned to see the Durst kids standing side by side. For some reason, they looked taller than he remembered. He was at about eye-height with the girl, maybe just a touch shorter than her, when before he’d at least had a solid couple of feet. But that wasn’t the most important thing, hell no.

Before them was the image of Daniel- goddamn twink elf bastard- with his hands on a cloaked body. On further inspection, Mortar saw his own scarred visage, eyes closed, skin pale, breathing slow, too slow, and deeper than his damaged lungs were usually comfortable with.

“You almost died, mister,” Rose said, one arm looped around her brother as she took him in with her head cocked to the side. “Why’d you try to leave us again? You said you wouldn’t.”

Thorn sniffled and nodded as he pressed closer against her side. “We don’t wanna be alone...”

Mortar blinked. “I… Almost died?”

Rose nodded, her eyes moving past him for just a second. “You grabbed us and got cut trying to get through the door. Then a man tried to take you. But we pulled you back before he could.” Her lips quirked up just a touch. “And now you can play with us!”

At that point, he decided to look himself over. No, he couldn’t have been dead- or almost dead. What was he, some kind of fucking pansy? A softie? No, not at all. But inspecting himself revealed that his cloak and his clothes were way to big for him. He felt like a kid playing dress-up.

A kid.

“We haven’t had someone to play with in so long,” Thorn almost whispered, his eyes filled with fear as he stared at Mortar. “Don’t be mad…”

“Not mad,” he breathed out, and now he could hear the higher pitch and the strange smooth tone of his voice. “Just surprised. Didn’t expect to be this small again, ya know? Would’ve appreciated a warning.”

Rose nodded in understanding, and Thorn eased up. But seeing the two of them made Mortar almost feel bittersweet. Especially considering what he had even come in here to do.

“We can’t play long,” he said softly, hoping to not upset them. “‘Cause I came in here to help ya both, you know… Find rest.”

“Rest?” Rose furrowed her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

The urge to crouch down popped up, but he has to force it down. How weird would that be right now? Instead, he simply said, “I was helpin’ ya get to a place where you wouldn’t be alone. Where ya get to play and do whatever ya want.”

Both their eyes lit up with hope.

“Really, mister?” Thorn asked softly and brought his doll closer to his chest. “Can we… Can we eat there? And see mom and dad?”

A bitter taste sprung up in his mouth. Their parents. The fucking assholes who did this to these innocent children in the first place. Let them starve, and for what? Some stupid fucking cult? Dark magic bullshit that didn’t even matter? Their own sick pleasures?

Before he could answer, the feeling of something rushing through him broke his concentration. Looking down, he saw Cookie slide through him. A rush of panic made him try to swipe at Cookie, keep him from making another stupid decision like tumbling through a swinging blade when he wasn’t a physical person. But, like smoke, he slipped through Mortar’s fingers and collapsed at his body’s side.

Magic poured out from Cookie over and over. Spare the Dying. He’d seen that spell plenty of times before- felt it too. But now it did nothing. His body didn’t stir, not even slightly. It was heart-wrenching to watch, Mortar wanted to scream that he was okay, he was here, but he knew deep down that it wouldn’t work.

Eventually, Cookie stopped, and while he cried over Mortar’s body, Daniel made plans to get him out of the room.

...Stupid plans to have him dragged through the doorway by Daniyal’s thornwhip, but whatever.

Either way, and as much as he hated to admit it, there was nothing he could do to help Cookie. Daniel could probably manage it. Though being told to take a deep breath only made Cookie cry harder. Fucking idiot, that was Mortar’s advice to give, not his!

He turned his attention back to the kids, who watched him expectantly. “Yeah,” he finally answered, hoping his little lie wouldn’t be picked up. “You can eat there. Won’t go hungry ever again. And you can see your parents whenever ya want. I’m sure they miss ya both a whole ton.”

Rose brought a hand up to her stomach, clutching at it almost desperately. Mortar copied her, the memory of starvation echoing deep in his gut. She took him in with narrowed eyes.

“Didn’t wonder why a grown man was so small?” he asked with a wry grin. “Ain’t a stranger to going hungry.”

She relaxed, her face softening a little. But there was still an edge to her expression. Envy. He’d had the freedom to make it, after all. A chance. More than she and Thorn ever had.

Suddenly, Mortar felt a prickling in his ankles, followed by a sharp pain on his back. He let out a yell and dropped to his knees as his whole being was jolted. The feelings ebbed and spread like a fast acting poison, and he could feel himself slipping, but held firmly to where he was.

Mortar couldn’t die.

The kids knelt down next to him, hands on his shoulders. That helped ground him a little, and he shot them both a thankful grin, which Thorn returned with a shy smile. Rose helped him to his feet, then turned her head toward the group and frowned.

“Your friends hurt you…”

He followed her gaze and saw the vines of Daniyal’s spell disappearing. Blood spilled onto the floor from a large gash on Mortar’s back. Well, that’d be a new scar for sure. Still wasn’t as painful as hearing Cookie’s desperate sobs and pleas.

“Whatever,” he said with a casual shrug. “Ain’t dead, that’s all that matters.”

Rose didn’t seem to agree, if that almost glare toward the group had anything to say about it. But at least she didn’t make a move to do anything about it.

“You have our bones,” Thorn whispered after a moment, and he took a hesitant step closer to the swinging blade. “Can we…?”

“Might as well try,” he answered and stepped forward, with a comforting hand on Thorn’s back. “Go on.”

Thorn withdrew in on himself, disappearing further into his hood. The doll almost disappeared into his chest, covered by both his arms. “I-I… I’m scared… What if it hurts…? I don’t wanna hurt anymore…”

Mortar leaned forward to catch his attention. “Want me to lead you? Just close your eyes and hold my hand. I’ll make sure ya don’t hurt. Promise.”

Thorn’s eyes watered and his bottom lip quivered. He bit down on it and wiped at his face with the back of his sleeve with a deep, shaking breath. Then, after a moment of sniffling and whimpering, Mortar felt a hesitant hold on his hand.

To his surprise, his other hand was grabbed by a more firm grip. From the corner of his eye, he could see Rose staring pointedly ahead, as if she didn’t want to acknowledge what she was doing.

He could respect that.

“Eyes closed?” he asked.

Thorn and Rose both nodded, with matching hums. One quick look proved them honest. While he had the chance, Mortar stuck his foot out in the way of the blade, just to see if it could pass through his ghostly form.

It did with ease. Painlessly too.

“Alright, here we go.”

A couple steps were met with resistance from the kids, but they soon followed him. One step. Then two. And three, four. And before any of them knew it, they were all through to the other side. Surrounded by Mortar’s friends, free from the prison that had kept the kids trapped for who even knew how long.

“See?” he announced cockily. “Easy. Ya both got through.”

Neither of them let go, but they did both open their eyes and look around in awe. It was like they were seeing someone they knew for the first time. Joyful smiles took over their faces, and they both turned to Mortar, grateful and the brightest they’d ever looked.

A pained scream made the moment shatter into pieces.

Mortar let go of the kids’ hands and whipped around just in time to see Cookie get sliced at by the swinging blade. Daniel steadied him and muttered in his ear, pointing at the pendulum. Then he stepped back with a strum on his lyre, and Cookie took another dive.

Only to get knocked out.

“Cookie!” Mortar ran through the doorway and fruitlessly grabbed at Cookie, Daniel, the walls, everything within reach. When he gave up on trying, he muttered, low and quiet, “Daniel, I fucking swear, if you let my Cookie die, I’ll rip out your damn heart with my bare hands.”

Thankfully, Daniel was able to wake Cookie up. A last chance before breaking through the wall- at least someone had some damn sense. Just seeing all of Cookie’s wounds made Mortar curse the fact he was practically on death’s door, useless to help. Cookie went through all of this because of him.

Daniel, of course, tried to talk Cookie’s ear off. But Cookie shushed him, and that at least out Mortar at ease. Especially when Daniel accidentally smacked his hand against the wall while being a bastard in response.

Mortar drew in a sharp breath as Cookie readied himself.

Time froze.

Cookie leapt.

And he made it.

Even the Durst kids looked surprised at Cookie’s smooth dive through the trap. But that soon turned to a firm protectiveness as Cookie purposefully made for Mortar’s body. They stood in front of him, to no avail, Rose tense and even Thorn looking a little more sure of himself.

Effortlessly, driven by something unseen, Cookie passed through the kids and lifted Mortar’s body up into his arms. Without a word to anyone else, he took off through the door that had been cut into the attic wall, no doubt to go down into the catacombs beneath the house.

Rose clenched her fist and Thorn’s fingers dug into his doll. But they both eased as soon as Mortar approached and offered his hands.

“It’s a bit of a walk,” he said softly as the realization of what would happen loomed over him. “And it’s dark. Don’t want ya gettin’ lost. ‘Course, I’d come find ya anyway, but still.”

As soon as they both eagerly took hold, he made to follow Cookie. Not too fast, of course. But a nice pace that allowed him the time he needed to let everything sink in. Mourning could be done later. Right now, he’d accepted it at the very least.

A somber silence had long taken over. Only interrupted by the gentle clack-clack-clack of hooves against stone.

“It’s scary down here, mister,” Thorn breathed out, pressing into Mortar’s side. “Is this where you’re taking us?”

“No,” he answered without hesitation. “This is just the way to get there. Like a bridge. Where you’re goin’ is much nicer.”

“Promise?” Rose asked with a side-eye his way.

“Promise.”

Right outside of the crypts, where Cookie had slipped inside, Mortar stopped. Probably best to not let the kids see their own graves. Already had to be around their own corpses for an eternity.

“Wait here,” he told them. “I’m gonna make sure Cookie takes care of you.”

“You two love each other, huh?”

Mortar blinked, his attempt to go stopped by that question. “Huh?”

Rose raised an eyebrow at him, as if scorning him for not listening. “You two love each other, right? Like mom and dad did. They loved each other a whole lot.”

No, they fucking didn’t. But he couldn’t say that.

“Well, we’re still getting to know each other,” he answered as simply as he could. “I do like him a whole lot. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’ll be love. Dunno if he feels the same way, though.”

Thorn’s soft voice spoke up. “He looks at you like how mom used to look at dad… Like, real happy.”

Was that true? He’d never really noticed. But he smiled at the thought. “Yeah? Hopefully, I can keep makin’ him happy. Now I gotta go and try to do that, okay?”

To make up for the loss of his hands, they both grabbed onto each other. Looking lost, a little sad. Like they almost knew what was coming without really knowing. Thorn more than Rose, really. She still had her bravado up. As much as he didn’t want to leave them, he knew that he had to at least try something. He’d been useless, failed in the task he set out. If he didn’t make things right for these kids, then he’d be carrying this burden for the rest of his life.

In a single breath and a single step into the crypt, the world around him grew smaller. He looked down- the little scars on his hands were back, and his clothes fit him like they should.

The image of his past was gone, replaced by the true him.

Cookie carefully set his body down and pulled the bones from his bag. In the whole chaos of everything that had happened, the bones had gotten mixed up. A distraught look crossed his face as he lifted a skull and looked it over, but Mortar leaned in close, front pressed to Cookie’s back, hands on his arms, and whispered in his ear.

“That’s Rose’s…”

Piece by piece, Cookie got both Rose and Thorn into the respective coffins, with the guidance of Mortar’s knowledge that filled the air. At least, that’s what he hoped. Some part of him felt it was true, and that was all that mattered, in the end.

The final piece of Thorn’s doll. With it in place, Mortar knew there wasn’t much time left. He left Cookie to put the stone slabs in place, and hurried back to the kids.

“Mister, we feel weird,” Rose immediately said, one hand pressed against her chest, right over her heart. “Are we… Are we going now?”

He swallowed thickly. “Yeah. You are.”

Hesitant, Thorn stepped closer, his big eyes pleading as he looked up at Mortar and clutched desperately to his doll. “Can you come with us?”

Ouch. It was almost tempting. That warm, golden glow he’d felt was like a pleasant escape he’d been snatched from. But he knew that he could find that glow again. Something told him it was inside a little sheep-boy cleric.

“I’m not done with this world yet,” Mortar said and put a gentle hand to the top of Thorn’s head. “Got things to do. People to look after. But you two have each other, yeah? All you gotta do is hold hands. Nothin’s gonna hurt ya.”

Rose carefully approached, for the first time looking truly lost, scared even. The question was burning in her watery eyes, even as she took Thorn’s hand.

Mortar crouched down, arm now hooked around both Thorn and Rose in his best attempt at a comforting hug. The both fell to their knees and buried their faces into his chest, sniffles and sobs filling the air as he held them tight.

“Promise, kiddos. You’ll both be okay.”

“Thank you, mister…”

The crying softened after a moment into what sounded like peaceful slumber. He looked down to see both Rose and Thorn had their eyes closed, full weight leaning against him, faces relaxed for the first time. And hands very much still intertwined. Then, slowly, the weight lifted, and he watched as they faded away, only a dim light remaining until that too followed them.

Standing to his feet, he pulled his hood back over his head and readied himself for the future. One way or another, he was gonna get back to his body. All he had to do was keep an eye on Cookie in the meantime.

[vanilluhbeaux]

missing you insane

vanilluhbeaux (distinque)

Summary:

In the end, she went to Italy.

Notes:

companion piece of to 'loser'

In the end, she went to Italy. The girl with the bright doe eyes and brown hair packed all of her things and moved to across the world to work in a lab she had never seen before. She realized that there truly were bigger things at hand, and the man she played with had told her not to stress him, so she didn’t. After a moments thought while he was away, Haru Miura left Japan without so much as a goodbye. After all, he did it every time he accepted a mission. She felt that if he could be carefree—to up and leave—so could she. There was nothing holding her in Japan besides memories, and those weren’t worth the damn she gave. The only other thing was him, though he was never here long enough to have any significant weight. So she finally gained some sense and followed his advice—don’t stress me, go ahead and go to Italy.

When giving that advice, Hibari never factored in how much he’d miss her. He was only home once, maybe twice a week, and fewer times was spent at the Vongola headquarters where she spent most of her time. Every so often, he’d find himself in her bed, embracing her with a desperation that he thought he abandoned a long time ago. Even so, he found himself slinking out of her bed, her house, her life, with the same desperation he possessed the night before. To see her, awake and alert and expecting him to disappear was something he decided he never wanted to see—the large, mouse-like eyes would provoke something in him that he’d rather stay suppressed.

The day she first told him she should leave, he had no idea what to do. He found her sitting on the counter, legs crossed at the ankles and eyes large and round, piercing him with a doe’s steady gaze. She sipped her coffee black, without needing any sugar or cream to help her keep it down, and told him that their little flings were a game to her, a game she hated that she was losing. There was something in her eyes, a carnivorous spark that almost intimidated him, but he told her to do what she wanted—to go to Italy. He knew she would, the opportunity was amazing and she loved to travel, and he figured that if he was ever there, they could play their game until the round ran out of time.

Since then, he’s described his life in three parts—Pre-Haru, Post-Haru and the in between. He’s only used these terms in the safety and privacy of his own mind, but he used them nonetheless. The doe-eyed girl left more of an impression on him than he thought possible, and he acknowledged her for it.

•

The next time he seen her, she was different. She cut her hair and dyed it black, probably to blend in better. Being in their line of work was dangerous, and now that she was alone, she was practically begging for something to happen to her. Changing her appearance was probably a part of the deal.

It didn’t suit her. She was never the kind of girl that blended into her surroundings, and standing in a sea of people with blunt bob haircuts and pretty, red lipstick-stained lips that looked just like hers, she was almost overtaken. That was kind of the point, Hibari figured, but that still didn’t ease the nausea in his stomach from seeing so many people who looked like her. It wasn’t until they locked eyes that the feeling subsided, and disappeared completely when those plump red lips spread into a wide, tooth bearing grin. She bent her head down and fished a cigarette out of her pocket and held it between her teeth as she walked towards him, he boots clicking as she neared. Hibari did nothing to catch up to her, standing still in the hotel lobby as people came and went around him.

Haru almost walked past him, doe eyes looking ahead and focused, the cigarette still perched in her teeth. Standing a hair’s breath behind him, she stopped and dug her hands in her pocket, fiddling and fumbling with a lighter. Dropping it between slick fingers, Hibari turned around and scooped it up, getting his first glimpse of her up close in eleven months.

Those brown eyes that he used to stare at seemed older now, farther off. They were doe-y and large, but possessed a strange edge, a ferocity that he hasn’t seen before. “You can keep it, honey. I’ve got another in my car,” she said, taking the cigarette out of her mouth for a moment. She tossed him a wink before leaving, and then sashayed away, leaving him empty and confused. Watching her leave, he noticed that she was carrying a small, black luggage behind her. The wheels were old but the case shined, as if she spent hours cleaning it.

He looked down at the lighter and saw an address etched into the silver case. It was more than likely intentional, though incredibly reckless; Haru was never one for safety, anyway.

•

The address led to an apartment complex in the diamond district by the coast—where politicians of both of legal government and the seedy underground spent thousands of dollars for everyone to keep quiet. The building itself was modern and sleek, the outside having white siding and the inside covered in bright, white tiles that Hibari seen his reflection in.

He followed the lighter until he found her door, a cute placemat with ducks situated outside of it. He thought to knock, but twisted the doorknob without doing so—remembering he always had a key to her townhouse in Japan so this should be no different. The door opened easily, and he found Haru sitting on the couch, her back turned away from the door and towards a wall entirely made of glass. The same white tiles flowed into her apartment until they met with the white carpet in the living room, contrasting vividly with her teal and black furniture.

Taking off his shoes and stepping inside, he broke the silence, “Leaving your door unlocked is stupid. I could’ve killed you by now.”

This earned a laugh from Haru, and she turned around and faced him. Standing up on the couch, she smiled as she revealed that she was clutching her own weapon, a small, pink gun wrapped around her fingers. Aiming it playfully, she said, “You’d have to get me before I got you.” Earning a confused look, she held her hands up and dropped the weapon, wandering towards him. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she mused, looking around, “it’s like a dream, Kyoya.”

He flinched at the use of his name. She noticed this, but didn’t say anything, watching him carefully. He didn’t give way to his emotions anytime when he was around her—though sometimes she pretended that he loved her when he was inside her—and seeing him as wary as he was made her a little nervous. Gently, she reached out and brushed his face with the side of her hand, and he caught it, quick and rough. “You left,” he said.

Her brown eyes lit up for a moment, but then cooled themselves down. "You told me to," she bit back, her voice small but bitter. She attempted to snatch her hand back but found herself powerless against him. They stood there for a moment, both too wrapped up in each other's proximity to do anything other than stare. In that moment, Haru thought she was back in Japan, getting ready to spend another night pretending they were something more than barely friends. It would've been a good night, where they spent most of wrapped up in each other rather than inside of each other, exploring each other's minds after exploring their bodies.

Hibari broke first, letting go of her hand and cupping her face, bringing his lips to hers and kissing her like he hasn't kissed her in years, though it had only been six months. He wasn't surprised that he was met with equal passion—Haru had always been a passionate girl outside of the bedroom, and she simply exploded inside of it—her arms wrapping around his neck tight enough to choke him. In a break from their usual routine, he found himself with his back against the door, overpowered by the small woman with dark hair. It was different, foreign and weird, but then again, he was in a completely foreign country with a woman who loooked weirder than he imagined.

•

He awoke to sunlight bleeding into his eyes through closed eyelids coming from a window he didn't know existed. He distinctly remembered Haru having black curtains to prevent herself from being awakened like this, something about it being "very intrusive and rude". He's also surprised to wake up alone, the owner of the bed not in her usual place beside him, with her head resting on his chest. She was missing from her spot—and it made it easier to leave—but that defeated half of the purpose of this trip. Hibari missed Haru, and she took it upon herself to be missed again.

Karma had a weird way of fucking with him, he supposed, collecting his thoughts and motioning to get out of bed.

He strolled into the kitchen and found her there, her head in her hands, short black hair falling forward, covering her face like a mask. He heard sniffling, and a few hiccups coming from her place on the countertop, and he made no move to go towards her, staying silent in his place. He'd caught her crying once before her confession—when her father was murdered. Hibari distinctly remembered Haru blaming herself—he was the friendliest math teacher in the world with a mafia-related daughter. Of course, his life was nothing if it meant it could rattle the black market engineer. Back then, she shed a few tears upon hearing the news, and then pulled her composure back together. His murderers were found dead less than two weeks later, and the woman never walked around without her gun on her hip again. Later, when it was just the two of them in her small townhouse, she cried again, wailing and screaming into his chest for what seemed to be an eternity.

This was more like the former, tears streaming down her face and the occasional sniffle. A warning rain before the hurricane.

"I lost everything moving here," she said, her voice raspy, barely above a whisper. "Fucking everything, Kyoya." She looked up at his, her eyes red and wide, bloodshot.

"You didn—"

"Shut the fuck up and let me speak." There was a definitive silence that overtook the room, her red eyes bleeding through him with everything they had inside of her. She seethed, the anger leaking from inside her like a pot, filled to the brim with water and set to boil. "I thought I didn't have anything to lose if I left—I'd end our fucking game and it'd be over. But you're so fuckin' sadistic, you just had to bring that shit back."

"I fucking miss you, Miura," he said, confused.

"And I miss my fucking dad!" she just about screeched, clenching her fist. "But you don't see me going to his grave and giving him a reason to come back!"

"You expect me to act like you're dead?" Hibari just about yelled. "Do you know how stupid that sounds?"

"You didn't want me when I was alive!" Silence swoooped in and stole his tongue out of his mouth. Haru sat on the counter, angry and burning with an unmatched desire to scream, her body heaving with her breaths. Her eyes narrowed for a moment, before widening slightly. In a last fit of anger, Haru tossed her gun at him, the pink pistol sailing through the air before hitting a wall behind him. It missed him—wasn't even close—but they both knew that she was not aiming for him. She was angry, yes, but it was very rare for her to attack someone out of anger. She saved fights for people that she hated—and no matter how badly she wanted to, she was still a slave to the love game she found herself playing months before. Quietly, she confessed, "I had to have an abortion before I came out here."

The silence that came after was deadly. Haru sat on her counter, full of rage and spiteful, staring at him with the same intensity a deer had when it held an incoming car. It held a phsyical weight, and that weight put pressure on Hibari, breaking his shoulders and spine, crushing him into nothingness.

"Fucking say something," she quipped, her voice holding more exhaustion than anger.

"You," was all he could get out before he ran out of words. She looked ready to cry again, still and shaken, like a leaf in winter, knowing doom is imminent. "You didn't say anything?"

"You couldn't even stay a full night with me—"

"I didn't have time—"

"And you have time for a baby?" The response hit him like a stack of bricks, hard and without restraint. "Because I didn't. I have time now, but I have a target on my back and there's so much fucking money on my head I have half a mind to kill myself and collect it." He chuckled, in spite of himself. It was a dry giggle of a chuckle, but a chuckle all the same, and he found himself amused despite the series of events that led to where he is currently. He wad surprised to find her laughing too, a small smile forming on her face without her permission. She shook her head softly, her hair falling back in front of her face. "You told me to leave," she said, her brown eyes narrowing at him. "I only did what you told me to do, Kyoya. I'm working in a big fuckin' lab doing science shit with Verde instead of Tsuna's basement, not stressing you 'cause I have much bigger things to do, and none of it makes me happy. I cheated myself, once again. I knew I would, because that was eventually and you are everyone."

At this point, Hibari was fuming. His fingers clenched themselves into fist and he stood still, afraid if he moved he might lose everything that he came all this way for. "You still think that this is some game, Haru?"  There was an iciness to his tone, a lost sounding voice coming from inside him. "I made a mistake in letting you walk away—I made a mistake walking away from you as may times as I did."

"You knew what you were doing! I told you everything and you still wanted me to run away rather than play house with you." She looked on the counter and threw the nearest object she could find—a yellow coffee cup—at him, narrowly missing his head. Again, she wasn't trying to hit him, though she wouldn't mind if the cup grazed him. "Well, I'll be damned if I play house by myself—especially  when there's such a bad world outside of the fucking playroom."

"You don't have to be in that world—"

"It's too late for that, Kyoya," she said, wryly. "As soon as I step out that door, I'm as good as dead. Every meeting I go to, every luncheon I attend, every fucking business date I go on to sell my fucking work, I can lose my life." She looked at him up and down before continuing, "And if anyone thought it'd bother me, you'd already be dead. I didn't and don't want to lose my baby because of the way I pay my bills, Kyoya."

"We can do this," he said, confidently. Without hesitation, he walked over to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, his steely grey eyes melting into her brown ones. "I'm not letting you walk away from me again."

And just like that, he managed to convince her to put another piece on the board.

[fitnesshealthyoga-blog]

New Post has been published on https://fitnesshealthyoga.com/how-to-love-yourself-with-on-being-humans-jennifer-pastiloff/

How to Love Yourself with On Being Human's Jennifer Pastiloff

When I tell you hundreds of books cross my desk each year, I mean it. Staff editors at wellness publications get review copies and manuscripts—most selling self love, radical happiness, promising to be life changing—every single day. At Yoga Journal, the interesting ones become the building blocks of desk-top fortresses. Few get read in entirety. None have ever actually impacted my life in any significant way. 

I started reading On Being Human one particularly lonely March weekend when my friends and husband were partying in an HGTV house we’d rented from AirBnb for a birthday party. Instead of revelry in the Rocky Mountains, I was in the fetal position thinking about dying—because endometriosis is murder and that’s another story. I’d brought home a review copy of Jennifer Pastiloff’s On Being Human: A Memoir of Waking Up, Living Real, and Listening Hard, simply because I’d recognized her name from Instagram. Or maybe it was because magic is real and the Universe was offering me an olive branch. I kind of like not knowing.

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Pastiloff’s memoir brilliantly details her own triumph over anorexia and self-hatred fueled by crippling depression—and the similar transformations of women in her retreats and workshops that she bears witness to as some kind of anomalous yoga teacher/sisterhood guru. Suddenly I was cutting up Post-Its to mark passages, highlighting words I needed to hear and keep hearing, and texting iPhone photos of paragraphs to friends whose very own souls also seemed to be leaping off the pages of a manifesto relishing imperfection and shushing self doubt. I felt a surge of cosmic connection—of being seen by a stranger. So I did something bold and unusual and a little bit scary. I messaged Jen and told her how I felt like she was speaking directly to me. That I felt a little silly telling her that at all, but fuck it, right? That I’d love to attend, and write about, her On Being Human retreat in France in May. And could she offer a reduced media rate or host a member of the press—aka me?

Three months later, as I try to put the beauty and absurdity of the past week on paper—seven days spent workshopping and laughing and dancing and swimming and stargazing and holding hands and hearts at a dreamy 17th century chateau with some of the most dazzling people I’ve ever met, I can’t help thinking: This book actually changed my life.

Besides lasting friendships and precious memories, I’m walking away with tools to make every day a bit brighter. To see the beauty in myself and others and to quiet that little voice that tells me I’m not good enough; that I should have published my own book by now; that I’m behind or undeserving or a bad wife or too fat or unlovable. 

Here are just a few of the ways I learned to open up and love myself more—and you can too.

See also 5 Poses to Inspire More Self-Love, Less Self Smack-Talk

17th-century country estate Chateau de Bardouly plays host to yoga retreats in Southwest France.

1. Be A Beauty Hunter 

Beauty hunting means looking around and counting as many gorgeous, amazing miracles you can possibly take in in that moment. The sound of rain on the roof. Clouds parting in the sky. Puppies. Baby feet. The smell of barbecues and fresh-cut grass and a hoppy IPA. It’s actually kind of impossible to be miserable and ungrateful when you’re collecting lovely things. The crooked smile of the concierge even after you’ve missed your flight (I did on the way to this retreat). The fact that humans even know how to fly at all. Beauty hunting. You’ll be surprised. The more beauty you seek and appreciate about a person or place or experience—quieting the inner monologue about what’s annoying you (a screaming baby, impossibly small airplane seats, no room in the overhead bin)—the more you’ll actually like yourself, too. Love and compassion are just muscles. Use them on others when it’s too hard to use them on yourself, and pretty soon it’ll be difficult to remember why you were so self-critical in the first place.

2. Banish Your “Just-A” Box

No one is just one thing. You’re not “just a mom,” “just a yoga instructor,” “just a teacher.” We all have multitudes. We are constantly evolving and growing and becoming better and best versions of ourselves. And this is the most important part: There is no timeline.

At the retreat, I shared space with women who accomplished many enviable things at varying times in their lives. One published a book in her 60s. One had her first baby at 20 and another had hers at 41. We all went around the room and listed off the things we were afraid of—scared we were too late for or had missed our shots at. I don’t want kids but I’m scared of not having kids. I’m afraid I’ll never publish my book or write for TV or film or get unstuck or feel fall-in-lovable. 

One particularly vibrant, intelligent, successful woman confessed that at 31, she was afraid she’d missed her chance at love. Oh, how the room scoffed at her perceived disillusion: You’re gorgeous! You’re so young! You’re so amazing! You’ll have everything! You have so much time!

But her fears are real for her and worth validation. We’re all afraid of things that won’t come true. It’s easier to look at the people around us and assure them that their worries are ridiculous and unfounded and of course there are wonderful things ahead. But it’s much harder to do it for ourselves. Think about the people you know and love in your life. Do you think of them as “just a _____”? I’m sure you don’t. Stop thinking about yourself that way.

3. Outsmart Your Inner Asshole

Your Inner Asshole (IA) is the voice of shame and degradation that tells you you’re awful and no one likes you and you’ll never accomplish your dreams and you’re stupid for even wanting them. Or at least that’s what mine says to me. Each IA is different. But they all have one thing in common: They’re A-holes. The IA will never stop trying to tell you what Jen calls “bullshit stories”: Messages of self-doubt or loathing that are completely unfounded but often paralyzing. In one of her workshops, she asked us each to write some of ours down. I’m too screwed up to find radical happiness. Passionate love doesn’t last. I’m not important enough to write what I want. I’ll never find financial freedom. I’m bad at marriage because of my parents’ shitty relationships.

Then she asked us to close our eyes and think of someone who makes us feel safe, loved, and understood—and write a letter to ourselves from that person’s point of view, beginning with: If you could see what I see, you’d know that…

I thought of my dear friend Hannah and how she laughs at my jokes and thinks I’m adorable when I’m gross and never judges my questionable choices as long as I’m following my truth. I channeled her voice and wrote myself a letter of admiration:

Linds,

If you could see what I see, you’d know that you are a badass B. I’ve watched you reawaken and take responsibility for your life in a way that is so cool and powerful. I love seeing you realize what you deserve and going for it. You’ve always had a way of making those around you recognize their own light. Yours, too, is so bright: I love seeing you shine. You are strong. You are brave. You are beautiful. You don’t even know yet that you’re halfway there. Keep going. I’ve got you. I’m walking you home.

Love, Hannah

Hannah is smarter than my IA. She knows that the things it tells me are 99 percent untrue. So from now on, when my IA pipes up to make me feel small or unworthy, I will be channelling Hannah when I tell it to kindly shut the hell up.

See also  10 Ways to Love Yourself (More) in the Modern World

4. Embrace Vulnerability

When Brené Brown coined the term “vulnerability hangover,” the woman had my number. I am the queen of wallowing in self-loathing after a night of putting my true self out on the table (this exposure is often helped along by lowering my inhibitions with alcohol, if I’m being honest). A friend of mine in college called it “the Weirds” when I woke up hungover, cripplingly afraid that no one liked me. “We all get the Weirds,” he said, reassuringly. 

And no matter how many times I’ve woken up with said Weirds, no one who’s witnessed me be outrageously myself has ever decided they no longer enjoy my company. As it turns out, I’m the only person who cringes after a night of wearing my heart on my sleeve.

In Jen’s workshop, we were vulnerable from day one. We wrote down our deepest fears about ourselves and read them out loud before we could even remember each other’s names. We read letters to our 16-year-old selves and poems we’d only been given a few minutes to write. We told each other all the horrible self-loathing thoughts our IA’s were ramming down our throats. And you know what? It was freeing. 

There were no pretenses to keep up with. We had come without our armor to a safe space and we did not die without it. We loved each other more because we could see each other better. In writing this now, I looked back at On Being Human and found this passage, which accurately confirms all I’ve just described (or maybe vise versa):

As my workshop started to morph into something more than yoga poses, I began to feel like I was falling in love with everyone in the room who allowed themselves to be vulnerable. And it dawned on me that the part of them I was smitten with was the side they probably tried to hide, just as I had done with my own vulnerability or perceived weaknesses. It wasn’t people being strong or snarky or guarded who made me want to know them more, who made me want wrap my arms around them. It was the ones who had snot dripping from their nose, who whispered “I am afraid,” who admitted they had no idea what they were doing. It was the ones who let themselves be silly and sing out loud, the ones who told the truth, the ones who shared their stories wholeheartedly. It was when they started to take off their armor and soften that I felt that surge of love, the same one I feel now when my son says Mommy, or when he wakes up with his hair sticking straight up. It was the feeling I got when someone was utterly themselves without any self-consciousness, when they allowed themselves to be seen. What is more desirable than that?

5. Give Yourself A F’ing Medal

At her workshops and in her book, Jen tells a story about “the one and the 100”: One person out of 100 may not like you. Do not try to please the one. 

At one of Jen’s earlier retreats, there was a woman wearing a big hat who just was not having all the Kum-ba-yah-ing. As she drove away a day or so early, she said to Jen, “I have to go. I need yoga. This is Feelings 101.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you,” she continued, “because you just gave that whole speech about the one and the 100, and I am being the one.”

Here’s (a slightly abridged version of) how she tells it in On Being Human:

Later that night, in the kitchen, as I was chatting with some women at the retreat, I mentioned the woman leaving, even though I had promised myself I would not talk about it or feed it to give it energy. My IA was like, “Girl, you know you wanna gossip.”

So I stood there with my wine and said things like, “I mean, look what I’ve accomplished being a college dropout, having waited tables at the same place for almost 14 years, being deaf. I’ve overcome so much, and I guess there is always going to be that person.”

I said a lot of other things, but what I remember is one woman wouldn’t give me what I was looking for. A pat on the back. I wanted to be told it was going to be okay, that I didn’t suck. I wanted someone to appease my IA. The woman just listened.

In that moment, an epiphany struck me and I said, “Excuse me,” so I could call my friend.

“Elise,” I said excitedly into the phone. “I had my epiphany: No one is going to give me a fucking medal,” I yelled. “I have to give myself one.” 

There it was. My whole life I had been waiting for permission, waiting to be discovered, waiting to be acknowledged, chosen, given permission to take up space. All of my life I had been waiting for someone to tell me I was enough.

The lady who left my retreat gave me a gift. She gifted me with the revelation that you have to do all the hard work of loving yourself yourself. In that moment in the kitchen with those ladies and the wine and the chocolate ganache, I finally realized that no one was ever going to save me. No one was ever going to give me permission to be me. I had to do it.

So on one of our very last days together last week, we sat baking in the warm sun together on a wooden yoga platform in Southern France. We stood up, one after another, and gave ourselves fucking medals. For being fiercely feminist. For having kids. For not having kids. For telling the hard stories. For surviving. For getting out of bed. For beating cancer. For eating the bread. And we all cheered and laughed and said “I got you” and were in awe of each other’s strength and beauty and we meant it. 

YJ senior editor Lindsay Tucker spent the past week with Jennifer Pastiloff at her On Being Human Retreat.

On Being Human goes on sale today. To learn more about Jen or attending one of her workshops or retreats, visit jenniferpastiloff.com.

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[derped-ranter]

*SCREAMING CAUSE THIS IS TOO CUTE*

Leo walked through the halls, gripping his backpack tightly with one hand and holding his beanie on his head tightly with the other. He was late for class but he didn’t care. The only thing that mattered at that moment was getting away from the bullies that stood by his classroom door, waiting for him. So, he ditched. Opting to stroll around the school and wait by his next classroom so he can just bolt im before a bully spotted him. The halls were silent with just him walking in it, even with the beanie covering his ears he could still hear better than an average human. His footsteps echoed through the hall before they stopped completely, Leo having spotted a figure walking towards him. He tensed up, thinking it was one of the bullies and dropped his bag, letting the money in his bag spew across the floor before he bolted off in the other direction of the figure. Adrenaline pumped into his veins, fueling his speed through the halls. He wanted to cry, fear taking over his whole being. ‘Why me? Why do I have to be born like this? Why do they pick on me because of something im born with? Aren’t they taught to love everyone? I want my mom’ he thought, tears pricking his eyes. Heavy footsteps fell quickly into place behind him, indicating the figure that was walking to him was bow chasing him. He ran out the back door of the school building, looking at the thick woods nearby before shooting for there, hoping to lose the bully in the woods. The footsteps didn’t stop though, if anything, they sped up. Low hanging branches cut up at his legs, making him regret wearing shorts that day. He saw a large tree up ahead, quickly thinking to climb it and did so, first grabbing the lowest thickest branch and pulled himself up, trying his best to climb quickly. Aside from the fact he nearly fell a few times as well as his hands and knees being scrapped up, he made it to a steady part of the tree to hide. He looked down at the figure, noticing how they hadn’t tried to climb the tree and seemed to be waiting for him to come down. He sighed in relief, leaning against the tree and relaxing. Something tapped his head, making him look up and almost scream, losing his balance on the branch and began to fall. But the hand that had tapped his head quickly reached out, grabbing his hand and holding him to make sure he wouldn’t fall. He looked down, seeing the figure had disappeared before shooting his eyes upwards, staring in surprise at his savior. It was a girl, her light brown bangs covered half of her face and her eyes completely but even with the lack of face, she seemed worried for Leo. “DROP ME! JUST DROP ME! I DON'T WANT TO BE BULLIED! PLEASE JUST LET ME GO!” He screamed. The girl looked at him, confused. Tilting her head a bit to the side before pulling him up. “Why did you save me? I thought you wanted to hurt me.” He said, thoroughly confused. The girl shrugged, holding up his bag to him. Leo looked at her surprised, taking his bag and seeing everything was in it “thankyou so much. God, if mom knew I almost lost all my stuff she would have been so upset. We’re already tight for mo-” he shut himself up, pursing his lips and decided to keep quiet. “Why are you covering your eyes?” He asked her, motioning toward her large bangs. She shrugged again, leaning on the tree and taking out a lollipop. Opening it she ate it, closing her eyes even though Leo couldn’t see it. “Do you uh...come here often?” She nodded, twirling the lollipop in her mouth “do you even talk?” She nodded again. “Why aren’t you?” She shrugged, biting the rest of the lollipop and tossing the stick, hoping down the tree and landing on her feet. She looked up at Leo, motioning towards the other branches in a way of saying he should probably climb down instead of jumping down like she did. she looked at him or more at his hat and went to grab it but Leo quickly moved back, smacking away her hand. He looked at her sheepish while she seemed surprised at first before pouting“We should head back to the school, we’re missing a lot of classes” Leo said, starting to lead. The girl nodded, taking his hand and leading him the other way into the right direction of the school. Turns out later that day, Leo figured out she was a near mute. She would tap out morse code or write on a piece of paper. Her name was Ava. Ava actually happened to be one of his mom's friends daughters so, his mom didn’t mind all too much when he brought her onto their plane for a hangout. “Pilot Fox, you’re needed for a miss- oh hey kids!” Keira grinned, stepping into the plane. Fox groaned in her seat, turning to the blonde with a glare. “Tell wolf to go suck an egg, i’m watching the kids. And I am not leaving them in the hands of monsieur crab. I’ve made that mistake one too many times already” she growled out, shooting a glare towards the said spycrab. He quickly crawled away though, hiding under the dash board. “Do it or you’re fired soldier” Wolf popped their head in, glaring at Fox. Fox yelped, not expecting Wolf to be there “what about the kids?!” “They're old enough to take care of themselves” Wolf sounded bored, leaving the plane. Fox sighed, turning to Leo and Ava “behave. If I hear that you two caused any trouble, Keira will get it” “HEY!” fox got up, shoving Keira out of the plane and following her out. Ava grabbed Leo’s wrist and stood up, running outside and dragging him with her. Leo yelped, stumbling over his feet but kept running. They ran past Vito and Alejandro walking to the base cafeteria. They ran past the prankster triplets, watching them set up their pie launcher before running again. They even ran past Dipper’s kid, not doing anything when they saw him hiding all of the alcohol on the base. Ava looked back at Leo and grinned, leading them off the base. Leo looked around worried, thinking they would probably get in trouble. The forest thickened around them, the forest getting dense and musky until they found a clearing, a large tree planted in the middle of the clearing. It looked so quiet and secluded, making Ava grin and skip over to the tree. She plopped down with a light thump against the grass, leaning back on the tree. Leo looked around once more before following Ava and sitting sitting next to her, resting his chin on his knees. It took him a second before he realized it. “Hey wait this is the tree you found me at”he said, blinking and straightening a bit before scanning his eyes through the area. Ava nodded, taking out two lollipops. She opened one and ate it for herself before passing the other to Leo. “It looks so different” the last time they had been there was early fall. It was now spring. Flowers had bloomed in what used to be dying bushes and the grass was full grown, less patchy and dead. It actually seemed like someone kept coming here to work on the area, to preserve the beauty. Leo ate the lollipop, smiling at the amusing memory. Ava glanced at him, staring at his beanie for a moment before tapping his shoulder. Leo looked over at her, tilting his head and listened closely to her taps. ‘Isn’t it a bit warm out to wear a beanie?’ She tapped out, looking at him curiously. Leo frowned, looking away from Ava. “no it’s not” He said a bit bitterly. ‘Why do you wear it all the time?’ “because I look weird without it on” ‘i doubt that’ “I do. You’ll make fun of me” ‘you don't make fun of me for the way I talk so why would I make fun of you for your looks? It’s not like you can control that’ Leo looked at her hesitantly, not really wanting to take it off. He was fearful that she would still make fun of him for it, all the other kids at school do so why wouldn’t she? She could tell he wasn’t convinced before signing ‘it’s ok you can trust me’ Leo sighed before nodding, his face going blank before he slowly pulled off the beanie. He looked away from his friend, not wanting to see the look that was on her face. It had to be disgust. He was disgusting in his eyes after all. He could practically hear the taunting of the other kids from school. Leo started getting up, deciding it was just best to walk back to base until he felt a tug on his wrist. He looked back at Ava, a bit surprised when a smile was on her face and she stood up with a spring in her jump. “I love them!” her voice was soft, yet scratchy. Leo was taken aback, the fact after all these months, this was the first time he actually heard her voice. Tears pricked his eyes and he sniffled, the taunting in the back of his head vanishing after her words before he pulled her into a tight hug, tears of happiness springing from his eyes. Ava tensed up, not used to the sudden contact but smiled, wrapping her arms around Leo and returning the embrace. “Thankyou. Thankyou so much” he said, hugging her tighter. She brought a hand back, lightly tapping his back ‘What are friends for?’ @ivana-sin-fox ARE YOU PROUD OF ME @the-blue-army

[krisiunicornio]

Senior editor, Lindsay Tucker spent a week in Southern France with Jen Pastillof on her On Being Human Retreat. Here are just a few ways she learned to open up and love herself more—and you can too.

When I tell you hundreds of books cross my desk each year, I mean it. Staff editors at wellness publications get review copies and manuscripts—most selling self love, radical happiness, promising to be life changing—every single day. At Yoga Journal, the interesting ones become the building blocks of desk-top fortresses. Few get read in entirety. None have ever actually impacted my life in any significant way. 

I started reading On Being Human one particularly lonely March weekend when my friends and husband were partying in an HGTV house we’d rented from AirBnb for a birthday party. Instead of revelry in the Rocky Mountains, I was in the fetal position thinking about dying—because endometriosis is murder and that’s another story. I’d brought home a review copy of Jennifer Pastiloff’s On Being Human: A Memoir of Waking Up, Living Real, and Listening Hard, simply because I’d recognized her name from Instagram. Or maybe it was because magic is real and the Universe was offering me an olive branch. I kind of like not knowing.

Pastiloff’s memoir brilliantly details her own triumph over anorexia and self-hatred fueled by crippling depression—and the similar transformations of women in her retreats and workshops that she bears witness to as some kind of anomalous yoga teacher/sisterhood guru. Suddenly I was cutting up Post-Its to mark passages, highlighting words I needed to hear and keep hearing, and texting iPhone photos of paragraphs to friends whose very own souls also seemed to be leaping off the pages of a manifesto relishing imperfection and shushing self doubt. I felt a surge of cosmic connection—of being seen by a stranger. So I did something bold and unusual and a little bit scary. I messaged Jen and told her how I felt like she was speaking directly to me. That I felt a little silly telling her that at all, but fuck it, right? That I’d love to attend, and write about, her On Being Human retreat in France in May. And could she offer a reduced media rate or host a member of the press—aka me?

Three months later, as I try to put the beauty and absurdity of the past week on paper—seven days spent workshopping and laughing and dancing and swimming and stargazing and holding hands and hearts at a dreamy 17th century chateau with some of the most dazzling people I’ve ever met, I can’t help thinking: This book actually changed my life.

Besides lasting friendships and precious memories, I’m walking away with tools to make every day a bit brighter. To see the beauty in myself and others and to quiet that little voice that tells me I’m not good enough; that I should have published my own book by now; that I’m behind or undeserving or a bad wife or too fat or unlovable. 

Here are just a few of the ways I learned to open up and love myself more—and you can too.

See also 5 Poses to Inspire More Self-Love, Less Self Smack-Talk

17th-century country estate Chateau de Bardouly plays host to yoga retreats in Southwest France.

1. Be A Beauty Hunter 

Beauty hunting means looking around and counting as many gorgeous, amazing miracles you can possibly take in in that moment. The sound of rain on the roof. Clouds parting in the sky. Puppies. Baby feet. The smell of barbecues and fresh-cut grass and a hoppy IPA. It’s actually kind of impossible to be miserable and ungrateful when you’re collecting lovely things. The crooked smile of the concierge even after you’ve missed your flight (I did on the way to this retreat). The fact that humans even know how to fly at all. Beauty hunting. You’ll be surprised. The more beauty you seek and appreciate about a person or place or experience—quieting the inner monologue about what’s annoying you (a screaming baby, impossibly small airplane seats, no room in the overhead bin)—the more you’ll actually like yourself, too. Love and compassion are just muscles. Use them on others when it’s too hard to use them on yourself, and pretty soon it’ll be difficult to remember why you were so self-critical in the first place.

2. Banish Your “Just-A” Box

No one is just one thing. You’re not “just a mom,” “just a yoga instructor,” “just a teacher.” We all have multitudes. We are constantly evolving and growing and becoming better and best versions of ourselves. And this is the most important part: There is no timeline.

At the retreat, I shared space with women who accomplished many amazing, enviable things at varying times in their lives. One published a book in her 60s. One had her first baby at 20 and another had hers at 41. We all went around the room and listed off the things we were afraid of—scared we were too late for or had missed our shots at. I don’t want kids but I’m scared of not having kids. I’m afraid I’ll never publish my book or write for TV or film or get unstuck or feel fall-in-lovable. 

One particularly vibrant, intelligent, successful woman confessed that at 31, she was afraid she’d missed her chance at love. Oh, how the room scoffed at her perceived disillusion: You’re gorgeous! You’re so young! You’re so amazing! You’ll have everything! You have so much time!

But her fears are real for her and worth validation. We’re all afraid of things that won’t come true. It’s easier to look at the people around us and assure them that their worries are ridiculous and unfounded and of course there are wonderful things ahead. But it’s much harder to do it for ourselves. Think about the people you know and love in your life. Do you think of them as “just a _____”? I’m sure you don’t. Stop thinking about yourself that way.

3. Outsmart Your Inner Asshole

Your Inner Asshole (IA) is the voice of shame and degradation that tells you you’re awful and no one likes you and you’ll never accomplish your dreams and you’re stupid for even wanting them. Or at least that’s what mine says to me. Each IA is different. But they all have one thing in common: They’re A-holes. The IA will never stop trying to tell you what Jen calls “bullshit stories”: Messages of self-doubt or loathing that are completely unfounded but often paralyzing. In one of her workshops, she asked us each to write some of ours down. I’m too screwed up to find radical happiness. Passionate love doesn’t last. I’m not important enough to write what I want. I’ll never find financial freedom. I’m bad at marriage because of my parents’ shitty relationships.

Then she asked us to close our eyes and think of someone who makes us feel safe, loved, and understood—and write a letter to ourselves from that person's point of view, beginning with: If you could see what I see, you’d know that… I thought of my dear friend Hannah and how she laughs at my jokes and thinks I’m adorable when I’m gross and never judges my questionable choices as long as I’m following my truth. I channeled her voice and wrote myself a letter of admiration:

Linds,

If you could see what I see, you’d know that you are a badass B. I’ve watched you reawaken and take responsibility for your life in a way that is so cool and powerful. I love seeing you realize what you deserve and going for it. You’ve always had a way of making those around you recognize their own light. Yours, too, is so bright: I love seeing you shine. You are strong. You are brave. You are beautiful. You don’t even know yet that you’re halfway there. Keep going. I’ve got you. I’m walking you home.

Love, Hannah

Hannah is smarter than my IA. She knows that the things it tells me are 99 percent untrue. So from now on, when my IA pipes up to make me feel small or unworthy, I will be channelling Hannah when I tell it to kindly shut the hell up.

See also  10 Ways to Love Yourself (More) in the Modern World

4. Embrace Vulnerability

When Brené Brown coined the term “vulnerability hangover,” the woman had my number. I am the queen of wallowing in self-loathing after a night of putting my true self out on the table (this exposure is often helped along by lowering my inhibitions with alcohol, if I’m being honest). A friend of mine in college called it “the Weirds” when I woke up hungover, cripplingly afraid that no one liked me. “We all get the Weirds,” he said, reassuringly. 

And no matter how many times I’ve woken up with said Weirds, no one who's witnessed me be outrageously myself has ever decided they no longer enjoy my company. As it turns out, I’m the only person who cringes after a night of wearing my heart on my sleeve.

In Jen’s workshop, we were vulnerable from day one. We wrote down our deepest fears about ourselves and read them out loud before we could even remember each other's names. We read letters to our 16-year-old selves and poems we'd only been given a few minutes to write. We told each other all the horrible self-loathing thoughts our IA’s were ramming down our throats. And you know what? It was freeing. 

There were no pretenses to keep up with. We had come without our armor to a safe space and we did not die without it. We loved each other more because we could see each other better. In writing this now, I looked back at On Being Human and found this passage, which accurately confirms all I’ve just described (or maybe vise versa):

As my workshop started to morph into something more than yoga poses, I began to feel like I was falling in love with everyone in the room who allowed themselves to be vulnerable. And it dawned on me that the part of them I was smitten with was the side they probably tried to hide, just as I had done with my own vulnerability or perceived weaknesses. It wasn’t people being strong or snarky or guarded who made me want to know them more, who made me want wrap my arms around them. It was the ones who had snot dripping from their nose, who whispered "I am afraid," who admitted they had no idea what they were doing. It was the ones who let themselves be silly and sing out loud, the ones who told the truth, the ones who shared their stories wholeheartedly. It was when they started to take off their armor and soften that I felt that surge of love, the same one I feel now when my son says Mommy, or when he wakes up with his hair sticking straight up. It was the feeling I got when someone was utterly themselves without any self-consciousness, when they allowed themselves to be seen. What is more desirable than that?

5. Give Yourself A F'ing Medal

At her workshops and in her book, Jen tells a story about “the one and the 100”: One person out of 100 may not like you. Do not try to please the one. 

At one of Jen's earlier retreats, there was a woman wearing a big hat who just was not having all the Kum-ba-yah-ing. As she drove away a day or so early, she said to Jen, “I have to go. I need yoga. This is Feelings 101.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you,” she continued, “because you just gave that whole speech about the one and the 100, and I am being the one.”

Here’s (a slightly abridged version of) how she tells it in On Being Human:

Later that night, in the kitchen, as I was chatting with some women at the retreat, I mentioned the woman leaving, even though I had promised myself I would not talk about it or feed it to give it energy. My IA was like, "Girl, you know you wanna gossip."

So I stood there with my wine and said things like, “I mean, look what I’ve accomplished being a college dropout, having waited tables at the same place for almost 14 years, being deaf. I’ve overcome so much, and I guess there is always going to be that person.”

I said a lot of other things, but what I remember is one woman wouldn’t give me what I was looking for. A pat on the back. I wanted to be told it was going to be okay, that I didn’t suck. I wanted someone to appease my IA. The woman just listened.

In that moment, an epiphany struck me and I said, “Excuse me,” so I could call my friend.

“Elise,” I said excitedly into the phone. “I had my epiphany: No one is going to give me a fucking medal,” I yelled. “I have to give myself one.” 

There it was. My whole life I had been waiting for permission, waiting to be discovered, waiting to be acknowledged, chosen, given permission to take up space. All of my life I had been waiting for someone to tell me I was enough.

The lady who left my retreat gave me a gift. She gifted me with the revelation that you have to do all the hard work of loving yourself yourself. In that moment in the kitchen with those ladies and the wine and the chocolate ganache, I finally realized that no one was ever going to save me. No one was ever going to give me permission to be me. I had to do it.

So on one of our very last days together last week, we sat baking in the warm sun together on a wooden yoga platform in Southern France. We stood up, one after another, and gave ourselves fucking medals. For being fiercely feminist. For having kids. For not having kids. For telling the hard stories. For surviving. For getting out of bed. For beating cancer. For eating the bread. And we all cheered and laughed and said “I got you” and were in awe of each other’s strength and beauty and we meant it. 

YJ senior editor Lindsay Tucker spent the past week with Jennifer Pastiloff at her On Being Human Retreat.

On Being Human goes on sale today. To learn more about Jen or attending one of her workshops or retreats, visit jenniferpastiloff.com.

[cedarrrun]

Senior editor, Lindsay Tucker spent a week in Southern France with Jen Pastillof on her On Being Human Retreat. Here are just a few ways she learned to open up and love herself more—and you can too.

When I tell you hundreds of books cross my desk each year, I mean it. Staff editors at wellness publications get review copies and manuscripts—most selling self love, radical happiness, promising to be life changing—every single day. At Yoga Journal, the interesting ones become the building blocks of desk-top fortresses. Few get read in entirety. None have ever actually impacted my life in any significant way. 

I started reading On Being Human one particularly lonely March weekend when my friends and husband were partying in an HGTV house we’d rented from AirBnb for a birthday party. Instead of revelry in the Rocky Mountains, I was in the fetal position thinking about dying—because endometriosis is murder and that’s another story. I’d brought home a review copy of Jennifer Pastiloff’s On Being Human: A Memoir of Waking Up, Living Real, and Listening Hard, simply because I’d recognized her name from Instagram. Or maybe it was because magic is real and the Universe was offering me an olive branch. I kind of like not knowing.

Pastiloff’s memoir brilliantly details her own triumph over anorexia and self-hatred fueled by crippling depression—and the similar transformations of women in her retreats and workshops that she bears witness to as some kind of anomalous yoga teacher/sisterhood guru. Suddenly I was cutting up Post-Its to mark passages, highlighting words I needed to hear and keep hearing, and texting iPhone photos of paragraphs to friends whose very own souls also seemed to be leaping off the pages of a manifesto relishing imperfection and shushing self doubt. I felt a surge of cosmic connection—of being seen by a stranger. So I did something bold and unusual and a little bit scary. I messaged Jen and told her how I felt like she was speaking directly to me. That I felt a little silly telling her that at all, but fuck it, right? That I’d love to attend, and write about, her On Being Human retreat in France in May. And could she offer a reduced media rate or host a member of the press—aka me?

Three months later, as I try to put the beauty and absurdity of the past week on paper—seven days spent workshopping and laughing and dancing and swimming and stargazing and holding hands and hearts at a dreamy 17th century chateau with some of the most dazzling people I’ve ever met, I can’t help thinking: This book actually changed my life.

Besides lasting friendships and precious memories, I’m walking away with tools to make every day a bit brighter. To see the beauty in myself and others and to quiet that little voice that tells me I’m not good enough; that I should have published my own book by now; that I’m behind or undeserving or a bad wife or too fat or unlovable. 

Here are just a few of the ways I learned to open up and love myself more—and you can too.

See also 5 Poses to Inspire More Self-Love, Less Self Smack-Talk

17th-century country estate Chateau de Bardouly plays host to yoga retreats in Southwest France.

1. Be A Beauty Hunter 

Beauty hunting means looking around and counting as many gorgeous, amazing miracles you can possibly take in in that moment. The sound of rain on the roof. Clouds parting in the sky. Puppies. Baby feet. The smell of barbecues and fresh-cut grass and a hoppy IPA. It’s actually kind of impossible to be miserable and ungrateful when you’re collecting lovely things. The crooked smile of the concierge even after you’ve missed your flight (I did on the way to this retreat). The fact that humans even know how to fly at all. Beauty hunting. You’ll be surprised. The more beauty you seek and appreciate about a person or place or experience—quieting the inner monologue about what’s annoying you (a screaming baby, impossibly small airplane seats, no room in the overhead bin)—the more you’ll actually like yourself, too. Love and compassion are just muscles. Use them on others when it’s too hard to use them on yourself, and pretty soon it’ll be difficult to remember why you were so self-critical in the first place.

2. Banish Your “Just-A” Box

No one is just one thing. You’re not “just a mom,” “just a yoga instructor,” “just a teacher.” We all have multitudes. We are constantly evolving and growing and becoming better and best versions of ourselves. And this is the most important part: There is no timeline.

At the retreat, I shared space with women who accomplished many amazing, enviable things at varying times in their lives. One published a book in her 60s. One had her first baby at 20 and another had hers at 41. We all went around the room and listed off the things we were afraid of—scared we were too late for or had missed our shots at. I don’t want kids but I’m scared of not having kids. I’m afraid I’ll never publish my book or write for TV or film or get unstuck or feel fall-in-lovable. 

One particularly vibrant, intelligent, successful woman confessed that at 31, she was afraid she’d missed her chance at love. Oh, how the room scoffed at her perceived disillusion: You’re gorgeous! You’re so young! You’re so amazing! You’ll have everything! You have so much time!

But her fears are real for her and worth validation. We’re all afraid of things that won’t come true. It’s easier to look at the people around us and assure them that their worries are ridiculous and unfounded and of course there are wonderful things ahead. But it’s much harder to do it for ourselves. Think about the people you know and love in your life. Do you think of them as “just a _____”? I’m sure you don’t. Stop thinking about yourself that way.

3. Outsmart Your Inner Asshole

Your Inner Asshole (IA) is the voice of shame and degradation that tells you you’re awful and no one likes you and you’ll never accomplish your dreams and you’re stupid for even wanting them. Or at least that’s what mine says to me. Each IA is different. But they all have one thing in common: They’re A-holes. The IA will never stop trying to tell you what Jen calls “bullshit stories”: Messages of self-doubt or loathing that are completely unfounded but often paralyzing. In one of her workshops, she asked us each to write some of ours down. I’m too screwed up to find radical happiness. Passionate love doesn’t last. I’m not important enough to write what I want. I’ll never find financial freedom. I’m bad at marriage because of my parents’ shitty relationships.

Then she asked us to close our eyes and think of someone who makes us feel safe, loved, and understood—and write a letter to ourselves from that person's point of view, beginning with: If you could see what I see, you’d know that… I thought of my dear friend Hannah and how she laughs at my jokes and thinks I’m adorable when I’m gross and never judges my questionable choices as long as I’m following my truth. I channeled her voice and wrote myself a letter of admiration:

Linds,

If you could see what I see, you’d know that you are a badass B. I’ve watched you reawaken and take responsibility for your life in a way that is so cool and powerful. I love seeing you realize what you deserve and going for it. You’ve always had a way of making those around you recognize their own light. Yours, too, is so bright: I love seeing you shine. You are strong. You are brave. You are beautiful. You don’t even know yet that you’re halfway there. Keep going. I’ve got you. I’m walking you home.

Love, Hannah

Hannah is smarter than my IA. She knows that the things it tells me are 99 percent untrue. So from now on, when my IA pipes up to make me feel small or unworthy, I will be channelling Hannah when I tell it to kindly shut the hell up.

See also  10 Ways to Love Yourself (More) in the Modern World

4. Embrace Vulnerability

When Brené Brown coined the term “vulnerability hangover,” the woman had my number. I am the queen of wallowing in self-loathing after a night of putting my true self out on the table (this exposure is often helped along by lowering my inhibitions with alcohol, if I’m being honest). A friend of mine in college called it “the Weirds” when I woke up hungover, cripplingly afraid that no one liked me. “We all get the Weirds,” he said, reassuringly. 

And no matter how many times I’ve woken up with said Weirds, no one who's witnessed me be outrageously myself has ever decided they no longer enjoy my company. As it turns out, I’m the only person who cringes after a night of wearing my heart on my sleeve.

In Jen’s workshop, we were vulnerable from day one. We wrote down our deepest fears about ourselves and read them out loud before we could even remember each other's names. We read letters to our 16-year-old selves and poems we'd only been given a few minutes to write. We told each other all the horrible self-loathing thoughts our IA’s were ramming down our throats. And you know what? It was freeing. 

There were no pretenses to keep up with. We had come without our armor to a safe space and we did not die without it. We loved each other more because we could see each other better. In writing this now, I looked back at On Being Human and found this passage, which accurately confirms all I’ve just described (or maybe vise versa):

As my workshop started to morph into something more than yoga poses, I began to feel like I was falling in love with everyone in the room who allowed themselves to be vulnerable. And it dawned on me that the part of them I was smitten with was the side they probably tried to hide, just as I had done with my own vulnerability or perceived weaknesses. It wasn’t people being strong or snarky or guarded who made me want to know them more, who made me want wrap my arms around them. It was the ones who had snot dripping from their nose, who whispered "I am afraid," who admitted they had no idea what they were doing. It was the ones who let themselves be silly and sing out loud, the ones who told the truth, the ones who shared their stories wholeheartedly. It was when they started to take off their armor and soften that I felt that surge of love, the same one I feel now when my son says Mommy, or when he wakes up with his hair sticking straight up. It was the feeling I got when someone was utterly themselves without any self-consciousness, when they allowed themselves to be seen. What is more desirable than that?

5. Give Yourself A F'ing Medal

At her workshops and in her book, Jen tells a story about “the one and the 100”: One person out of 100 may not like you. Do not try to please the one. 

At one of Jen's earlier retreats, there was a woman wearing a big hat who just was not having all the Kum-ba-yah-ing. As she drove away a day or so early, she said to Jen, “I have to go. I need yoga. This is Feelings 101.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you,” she continued, “because you just gave that whole speech about the one and the 100, and I am being the one.”

Here’s (a slightly abridged version of) how she tells it in On Being Human:

Later that night, in the kitchen, as I was chatting with some women at the retreat, I mentioned the woman leaving, even though I had promised myself I would not talk about it or feed it to give it energy. My IA was like, "Girl, you know you wanna gossip."

So I stood there with my wine and said things like, “I mean, look what I’ve accomplished being a college dropout, having waited tables at the same place for almost 14 years, being deaf. I’ve overcome so much, and I guess there is always going to be that person.”

I said a lot of other things, but what I remember is one woman wouldn’t give me what I was looking for. A pat on the back. I wanted to be told it was going to be okay, that I didn’t suck. I wanted someone to appease my IA. The woman just listened.

In that moment, an epiphany struck me and I said, “Excuse me,” so I could call my friend.

“Elise,” I said excitedly into the phone. “I had my epiphany: No one is going to give me a fucking medal,” I yelled. “I have to give myself one.” 

There it was. My whole life I had been waiting for permission, waiting to be discovered, waiting to be acknowledged, chosen, given permission to take up space. All of my life I had been waiting for someone to tell me I was enough.

The lady who left my retreat gave me a gift. She gifted me with the revelation that you have to do all the hard work of loving yourself yourself. In that moment in the kitchen with those ladies and the wine and the chocolate ganache, I finally realized that no one was ever going to save me. No one was ever going to give me permission to be me. I had to do it.

So on one of our very last days together last week, we sat baking in the warm sun together on a wooden yoga platform in Southern France. We stood up, one after another, and gave ourselves fucking medals. For being fiercely feminist. For having kids. For not having kids. For telling the hard stories. For surviving. For getting out of bed. For beating cancer. For eating the bread. And we all cheered and laughed and said “I got you” and were in awe of each other’s strength and beauty and we meant it. 

YJ senior editor Lindsay Tucker spent the past week with Jennifer Pastiloff at her On Being Human Retreat.

On Being Human goes on sale today. To learn more about Jen or attending one of her workshops or retreats, visit jenniferpastiloff.com.

[amyddaniels]

5 Ways to Radically Love Yourself Today

Senior editor, Lindsay Tucker spent a week in Southern France with Jen Pastillof on her On Being Human Retreat. Here are just a few ways she learned to open up and love herself more—and you can too.

When I tell you hundreds of books cross my desk each year, I mean it. Staff editors at wellness publications get review copies and manuscripts—most selling self love, radical happiness, promising to be life changing—every single day. At Yoga Journal, the interesting ones become the building blocks of desk-top fortresses. Few get read in entirety. None have ever actually impacted my life in any significant way. 

I started reading On Being Human one particularly lonely March weekend when my friends and husband were partying in an HGTV house we’d rented from AirBnb for a birthday party. Instead of revelry in the Rocky Mountains, I was in the fetal position thinking about dying—because endometriosis is murder and that’s another story. I’d brought home a review copy of Jennifer Pastiloff’s On Being Human: A Memoir of Waking Up, Living Real, and Listening Hard, simply because I’d recognized her name from Instagram. Or maybe it was because magic is real and the Universe was offering me an olive branch. I kind of like not knowing.

Pastiloff’s memoir brilliantly details her own triumph over anorexia and self-hatred fueled by crippling depression—and the similar transformations of women in her retreats and workshops that she bears witness to as some kind of anomalous yoga teacher/sisterhood guru. Suddenly I was cutting up Post-Its to mark passages, highlighting words I needed to hear and keep hearing, and texting iPhone photos of paragraphs to friends whose very own souls also seemed to be leaping off the pages of a manifesto relishing imperfection and shushing self doubt. I felt a surge of cosmic connection—of being seen by a stranger. So I did something bold and unusual and a little bit scary. I messaged Jen and told her how I felt like she was speaking directly to me. That I felt a little silly telling her that at all, but fuck it, right? That I’d love to attend, and write about, her On Being Human retreat in France in May. And could she offer a reduced media rate or host a member of the press—aka me?

Three months later, as I try to put the beauty and absurdity of the past week on paper—seven days spent workshopping and laughing and dancing and swimming and stargazing and holding hands and hearts at a dreamy 17th century chateau with some of the most dazzling people I’ve ever met, I can’t help thinking: This book actually changed my life.

Besides lasting friendships and precious memories, I’m walking away with tools to make every day a bit brighter. To see the beauty in myself and others and to quiet that little voice that tells me I’m not good enough; that I should have published my own book by now; that I’m behind or undeserving or a bad wife or too fat or unlovable. 

Here are just a few of the ways I learned to open up and love myself more—and you can too.

See also 5 Poses to Inspire More Self-Love, Less Self Smack-Talk

17th-century country estate Chateau de Bardouly plays host to yoga retreats in Southwest France.

1. Be A Beauty Hunter 

Beauty hunting means looking around and counting as many gorgeous, amazing miracles you can possibly take in in that moment. The sound of rain on the roof. Clouds parting in the sky. Puppies. Baby feet. The smell of barbecues and fresh-cut grass and a hoppy IPA. It’s actually kind of impossible to be miserable and ungrateful when you’re collecting lovely things. The crooked smile of the concierge even after you’ve missed your flight (I did on the way to this retreat). The fact that humans even know how to fly at all. Beauty hunting. You’ll be surprised. The more beauty you seek and appreciate about a person or place or experience—quieting the inner monologue about what’s annoying you (a screaming baby, impossibly small airplane seats, no room in the overhead bin)—the more you’ll actually like yourself, too. Love and compassion are just muscles. Use them on others when it’s too hard to use them on yourself, and pretty soon it’ll be difficult to remember why you were so self-critical in the first place.

2. Banish Your “Just-A” Box

No one is just one thing. You’re not “just a mom,” “just a yoga instructor,” “just a teacher.” We all have multitudes. We are constantly evolving and growing and becoming better and best versions of ourselves. And this is the most important part: There is no timeline.

At the retreat, I shared space with women who accomplished many amazing, enviable things at varying times in their lives. One published a book in her 60s. One had her first baby at 20 and another had hers at 41. We all went around the room and listed off the things we were afraid of—scared we were too late for or had missed our shots at. I don’t want kids but I’m scared of not having kids. I’m afraid I’ll never publish my book or write for TV or film or get unstuck or feel fall-in-lovable. 

One particularly vibrant, intelligent, successful woman confessed that at 31, she was afraid she’d missed her chance at love. Oh, how the room scoffed at her perceived disillusion: You’re gorgeous! You’re so young! You’re so amazing! You’ll have everything! You have so much time!

But her fears are real for her and worth validation. We’re all afraid of things that won’t come true. It’s easier to look at the people around us and assure them that their worries are ridiculous and unfounded and of course there are wonderful things ahead. But it’s much harder to do it for ourselves. Think about the people you know and love in your life. Do you think of them as “just a _____”? I’m sure you don’t. Stop thinking about yourself that way.

3. Outsmart Your Inner Asshole

Your Inner Asshole (IA) is the voice of shame and degradation that tells you you’re awful and no one likes you and you’ll never accomplish your dreams and you’re stupid for even wanting them. Or at least that’s what mine says to me. Each IA is different. But they all have one thing in common: They’re A-holes. The IA will never stop trying to tell you what Jen calls “bullshit stories”: Messages of self-doubt or loathing that are completely unfounded but often paralyzing. In one of her workshops, she asked us each to write some of ours down. I’m too screwed up to find radical happiness. Passionate love doesn’t last. I’m not important enough to write what I want. I’ll never find financial freedom. I’m bad at marriage because of my parents’ shitty relationships.

Then she asked us to close our eyes and think of someone who makes us feel safe, loved, and understood—and write a letter to ourselves from that person's point of view, beginning with: If you could see what I see, you’d know that… I thought of my dear friend Hannah and how she laughs at my jokes and thinks I’m adorable when I’m gross and never judges my questionable choices as long as I’m following my truth. I channeled her voice and wrote myself a letter of admiration:

Linds,

If you could see what I see, you’d know that you are a badass B. I’ve watched you reawaken and take responsibility for your life in a way that is so cool and powerful. I love seeing you realize what you deserve and going for it. You’ve always had a way of making those around you recognize their own light. Yours, too, is so bright: I love seeing you shine. You are strong. You are brave. You are beautiful. You don’t even know yet that you’re halfway there. Keep going. I’ve got you. I’m walking you home.

Love, Hannah

Hannah is smarter than my IA. She knows that the things it tells me are 99 percent untrue. So from now on, when my IA pipes up to make me feel small or unworthy, I will be channelling Hannah when I tell it to kindly shut the hell up.

See also  10 Ways to Love Yourself (More) in the Modern World

4. Embrace Vulnerability

When Brené Brown coined the term “vulnerability hangover,” the woman had my number. I am the queen of wallowing in self-loathing after a night of putting my true self out on the table (this exposure is often helped along by lowering my inhibitions with alcohol, if I’m being honest). A friend of mine in college called it “the Weirds” when I woke up hungover, cripplingly afraid that no one liked me. “We all get the Weirds,” he said, reassuringly. 

And no matter how many times I’ve woken up with said Weirds, no one who's witnessed me be outrageously myself has ever decided they no longer enjoy my company. As it turns out, I’m the only person who cringes after a night of wearing my heart on my sleeve.

In Jen’s workshop, we were vulnerable from day one. We wrote down our deepest fears about ourselves and read them out loud before we could even remember each other's names. We read letters to our 16-year-old selves and poems we'd only been given a few minutes to write. We told each other all the horrible self-loathing thoughts our IA’s were ramming down our throats. And you know what? It was freeing. 

There were no pretenses to keep up with. We had come without our armor to a safe space and we did not die without it. We loved each other more because we could see each other better. In writing this now, I looked back at On Being Human and found this passage, which accurately confirms all I’ve just described (or maybe vise versa):

As my workshop started to morph into something more than yoga poses, I began to feel like I was falling in love with everyone in the room who allowed themselves to be vulnerable. And it dawned on me that the part of them I was smitten with was the side they probably tried to hide, just as I had done with my own vulnerability or perceived weaknesses. It wasn’t people being strong or snarky or guarded who made me want to know them more, who made me want wrap my arms around them. It was the ones who had snot dripping from their nose, who whispered "I am afraid," who admitted they had no idea what they were doing. It was the ones who let themselves be silly and sing out loud, the ones who told the truth, the ones who shared their stories wholeheartedly. It was when they started to take off their armor and soften that I felt that surge of love, the same one I feel now when my son says Mommy, or when he wakes up with his hair sticking straight up. It was the feeling I got when someone was utterly themselves without any self-consciousness, when they allowed themselves to be seen. What is more desirable than that?

5. Give Yourself A F'ing Medal

At her workshops and in her book, Jen tells a story about “the one and the 100”: One person out of 100 may not like you. Do not try to please the one. 

At one of Jen's earlier retreats, there was a woman wearing a big hat who just was not having all the Kum-ba-yah-ing. As she drove away a day or so early, she said to Jen, “I have to go. I need yoga. This is Feelings 101.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you,” she continued, “because you just gave that whole speech about the one and the 100, and I am being the one.”

Here’s (a slightly abridged version of) how she tells it in On Being Human:

Later that night, in the kitchen, as I was chatting with some women at the retreat, I mentioned the woman leaving, even though I had promised myself I would not talk about it or feed it to give it energy. My IA was like, "Girl, you know you wanna gossip."

So I stood there with my wine and said things like, “I mean, look what I’ve accomplished being a college dropout, having waited tables at the same place for almost 14 years, being deaf. I’ve overcome so much, and I guess there is always going to be that person.”

I said a lot of other things, but what I remember is one woman wouldn’t give me what I was looking for. A pat on the back. I wanted to be told it was going to be okay, that I didn’t suck. I wanted someone to appease my IA. The woman just listened.

In that moment, an epiphany struck me and I said, “Excuse me,” so I could call my friend.

“Elise,” I said excitedly into the phone. “I had my epiphany: No one is going to give me a fucking medal,” I yelled. “I have to give myself one.” 

There it was. My whole life I had been waiting for permission, waiting to be discovered, waiting to be acknowledged, chosen, given permission to take up space. All of my life I had been waiting for someone to tell me I was enough.

The lady who left my retreat gave me a gift. She gifted me with the revelation that you have to do all the hard work of loving yourself yourself. In that moment in the kitchen with those ladies and the wine and the chocolate ganache, I finally realized that no one was ever going to save me. No one was ever going to give me permission to be me. I had to do it.

So on one of our very last days together last week, we sat baking in the warm sun together on a wooden yoga platform in Southern France. We stood up, one after another, and gave ourselves fucking medals. For being fiercely feminist. For having kids. For not having kids. For telling the hard stories. For surviving. For getting out of bed. For beating cancer. For eating the bread. And we all cheered and laughed and said “I got you” and were in awe of each other’s strength and beauty and we meant it. 

YJ senior editor Lindsay Tucker spent the past week with Jennifer Pastiloff at her On Being Human Retreat.

On Being Human goes on sale today. To learn more about Jen or attending one of her workshops or retreats, visit jenniferpastiloff.com.