#i have so many self indulgent doodles that will never see the light of day but for once ill share something hfgjkdh

[shootingstarrfish]

i need to sleep but im SO weak for these silly lil tropes can u tell cc's fic has a chokehold on me rn READ IT HERE !!

[bluejayblueskies]

in the reciprocal

Words: 8.3k

Relationships: Jon & Martin (QPR)

Tags: Season 1, Scottish Safehouse, Light Angst, Queerplatonic Relationships, Gray-Aro Martin, Kiss-Averse Jon, Kiss-Averse Martin

Warnings: internalized arophobia, mild external arophobia, mild internalized homophobia, canon-typical Lonely depression and dissociation, teasing someone about a crush (in a friendly manner), mention of canon character death, Martin briefly pretending like he still has romantic feelings for Jon and participating in a romantic relationship that makes him uncomfortable (this is addressed and resolved)

Ao3 link in source

.

Martin’s relationship with romance has always been … complicated.

He has distinct memories of his early teenage years, when the major topic of conversation had shifted abruptly to who had a crush on who and who had kissed who after school and who had asked who on a date. Martin had never really participated in those conversations, though that could be owed more to the fact that he didn’t have many friends than that he wasn’t interested.

Because Martin was interested. The idea of romance had always intrigued him—a fairy-tale thing where there was somebody who would choose you and love you and never let you be alone ever again—and he wanted, more badly than he knew what to do with sometimes, to be in love.

The world, as Martin quickly learned, was not a fairy tale. No matter how much Martin tried to pretend otherwise. In fairy tales, when people got sick, they eventually got better. In fairy tales, parents always loved their children and showered them with affection. (Or were villainous and cruel, locking their children away in towers and treating them like objects to be discarded. Though Martin was never fond of those stories.) And in fairy tales, love was always easy. It wasn’t something that had to be learned or forced. It was instead like breathing—nearly effortless unless you thought about it too much—and, like breathing, it was something that everyone did.

So Martin couldn’t understand why he was so bad at it.

Just before he’d dropped out of school to work full time after his mother couldn’t anymore, he’d been asked on the first and only date of his entire life. Nino had been his friend for nearly a year and a half, and Martin loved spending time with him more than he loved most things in his life back then. School was growing more difficult as Martin had to take on a second part-time job, his mother was growing sicker and shorter with her temper, and he was quickly coming to the realization that he was … different.

After all, he’d never once felt the same kind of affection toward the girls whose names he attempted to doodle in the corners of his notebooks as he felt toward Nino.

Coming to terms with the fact that his first real crush was on his very lovely, very male best friend was … hard. But one day, Nino had bumped his shoulder against Martin’s as they sat in the library and had said something funny that Martin has long since forgotten, and he’d found himself smiling widely. His heart was a stuttering mess in his chest, his stomach twisted up into knots, and … things hadn’t been so bad, then.

Loving Nino had felt safe. Looking back, Martin is sure that Nino had been able to read all of Martin’s stutters and flushed cheeks and clumsy attempts at affection for what they were, but at the time, it had felt like a private indulgence. Just another way for Martin to spend time with the boy who was gradually becoming the most important person in his life. (Behind his mother, that is. She would always come first.)

What was funny about the whole situation, in a way that was actually not very funny at all, was that Martin was even considering asking Nino out. He liked to fantasize about what it would be like—creating clumsy scenarios in his mind where he would slip a note into Nino’s backpack before they parted ways or blurt it out on their way to the tube or whisper it quietly under his breath in the library so that nobody else could hear it but them. He imagined what it would be like if Nino said yes, his face lighting up with a smile and his hand reaching for Martin’s.

He tried to imagine what would happen after that—the date, the kissing (which he could never quite picture without grimacing and pushing the image quickly away), the hand-holding, the…

Well. He actually wasn’t quite sure what was meant to come after.

(Like breathing. It was supposed to be like breathing.)

It was funny, except it wasn’t. Because when Nino pulled Martin aside on their way home one day, face flushed slightly darker than normal, and hesitantly asked if Martin would like to go to a movie with him in a way that was very clearly meant to be a date, Martin expected to feel happy. He expected to feel relieved, that he hadn’t had to muster up the courage to ask Nino himself, or nervous, that he was finally going to be pursuing a romantic relationship with the boy he cared so much about.

Instead, he felt … stiff. Uncomfortable, like his skin was suddenly just a bit too tight. He felt the sudden urge to hide, or maybe to run, or to vanish into thin air so he didn’t have to be standing here anymore, now desperately trying to avoid the eyes of the boy who had just bared such a vulnerable part of himself to Martin.

Confused, Martin tried to look within himself for that warm, stammering affection that had been there a minute ago and found it transformed into something awkward and tense and devoid of all desire for romance. But that didn’t make any sense, he thought as he stared blankly at Nino, who was becoming increasingly nervous, shifting from foot to foot as his mouth pinched into a thin, anxious line. He remembered liking Nino. He remembered the fantasies, remembered coming up with a thousand scenarios just like this one, remembered stammering and stuttering and wanting so badly to take Nino’s hand in his own.

It was like remembering a story he’d been told. Just a fairy tale.

“You … can just say no,” Nino said finally, and Martin felt a curl of guilt in his stomach at the clear upset in Nino’s eyes. “If you have to think this long, it’s … probably not a yes. Is it.”

Yes, Martin tried to say. It’s a yes—of course it’s a yes, I’m just … surprised. Maybe things would make more sense if they actually went on a date. Maybe Martin would just … sort himself out. He was just surprised, or maybe in shock.

He loved Nino. He did; he knew he did. He just … had to figure out how to bring it back.

He didn’t get the chance. (Though, thinking back on it now, Martin knows that even if he’d tried, it wouldn’t have worked.) Nino pulled back slightly, hands going to the straps of his backpack self-consciously. “Right,” he said, sounding terribly embarrassed, and Martin felt himself mirroring the emotion. “S-sorry, I … I guess I was reading things wrong. I—I thought that you … never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Nino forced a smile then, and it lacked all the bright and shining things that Martin liked about it. “S-suppose I’ll … see you in school tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Martin managed to say. And then Nino was gone, and Martin walked home alone.

He dropped out a few months later. Nino said that he would call, but Martin has always been good at lying and even better at telling when somebody else is doing so. And Nino hadn’t been putting much effort into it.

That was … probably for the best. At least Martin didn’t have to feel that dizzying, sickening sensation of guilt and awkwardness every time he looked at Nino anymore.

So, there it was. The world was nothing like a fairy tale. His mother only ever got sicker, her affection for him only ever grew more a thing of the past, and love was…

Well, love clearly wasn’t for him.

That didn’t stop him from falling hopelessly, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with Jonathan Sims.

.

.

.

Martin, as a rule, makes a habit of not talking about his love life. For one, because there is a distinct lack of it (a fact that he much prefers but doesn’t generally feel like explaining in detail). And for two, because Martin just knew it would turn into something like this.

Martin places his head in his hands to hide the flaming red of his cheeks. “Can we not talk about it?”

“I think we’re actually obligated to talk about it now,” Tim says with what Martin is absolutely certain is a cheeky grin. “Given that you’ve just admitted that your not-so-mysterious crush is Jonathan Sims.��� He drops his voice to an exaggerated conspiratorial murmur. “Is he the one you’ve been writing poetry about then?”

“I don’t have to say anything,” Martin mumbles into the very clammy palms of his hand.

Tim, fortunately, drops the poetry topic. He unfortunately does not drop the crush topic. “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he continues. “You’ve got good taste. The whole … sweater vest, ‘disgruntled professor’ vibe is attractive, and he’s funny, you know? In his own way.”

Martin lifts his head from his hands and gives Tim an exasperated look that he hopes screams can we please stop talking about this. Tim must misinterpret it as jealousy instead because he holds his hands up in the air placatingly. “Hey, no competition here. We’re just friends, and I’m not really interested in dating anyone at the moment.” A pause. “Though, I suppose if Jon asked, I wouldn’t say—you know what, that’s not helpful.”

“He is pretty hot,” Sasha pipes in from her spot on the break room couch. “I definitely get where you’re coming from.” Then, after Martin turns that same exasperated look onto her: “Just trying to show our support for the cause, Martin.”

“Yeah, well—don’t.” Martin stands, maybe a little bit too abruptly, and crosses the room to where the kettle sits on the counter. He fills it in the sink and then clicks it on, the blue light reflecting off the countertop and faintly illuminating his hands.

“Hey,” Tim says, leaning against the counter next to him and giving him a surprisingly serious look. “I’m sorry. If talking about this makes you uncomfortable, we’ll drop it.” He mimes zipping his lips closed and throwing away the key. “No questions asked.”

“I’m pretty sure talking afterward negates the ‘zipping your lips shut’ thing,” Martin says, which earns him an amused huff of laughter and a gentle elbow in the side. He finds himself smiling, if only briefly before it falls from his lips once again. “And it’s … fine. I’m not upset. It’s just…” He hesitates, considering, and settles on a suitably vague, “It’s complicated.”

Tim makes a noise of understanding. “Say no more, Marto. Consider the subject dropped.”

“Thank you.”

There are a few moments of silence between them, filled only with the gentle hum of the kettle. Martin reaches for the mugs, and as he pulls four from the cabinet, Tim says abruptly, “So wait—is that why you always bring him tea?”

Martin nearly drops the mugs. “Tim.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Tim grimaces at him sheepishly. “I’m dropping it.”

Martin nods and pulls the box of tea from the cupboard. As he gets the mugs ready, however, he can feel Tim’s eyes on him, heavy and curious. Finally, it gets to be too much, and Martin sets the box down with a sigh. “I bring him tea because he never leaves his office and at least this way he’s hydrated. If you absolutely must know.”

“Caffeine is a diuretic, you know,” Sasha says from where she’s still sitting on the couch.

“Yes,” Martin says tersely, grabbing the kettle as it clicks off, “but it’s better than nothing.”

The tea isn’t related to the crush. It really isn’t. But Martin knows that the more he tries to make excuses, the more it’ll seem like he’s deflecting, which will just be counterproductive. So he prepares the tea and passes Tim and Sasha’s mugs to them. Then, fully aware that Tim and Sasha are watching, he grabs Jon’s mug and makes his way to his office.

He doesn’t knock. He found out his first week here that Jon doesn’t like it when people knock and prefers them to verbally announce themselves instead. It wasn’t because Jon had told him; Martin gets the feeling that Jon is too stubborn to admit to that sort of weakness in front of him. It was because of the subtle tension in Jon’s shoulders every time Martin opened the door after rapping three times on the doorframe; the way his voice sounded ever so slightly pinched when he asked what Martin wanted.

So Martin says, just loud enough to penetrate the thick oak door, that he’s coming in, and then, after a moment, he opens it.

Jon is sitting at his desk, mountains of papers and files stacked on either side of him. His laptop is open in front of him, and he’s currently focused intently on something on the screen, the harsh white light of the LCDs reflecting off his glasses. He doesn’t seem to notice when the door opens, but when Martin takes a few steps closer and gently clears his throat, he looks up from the screen, blinking a few times as his eyes adjust to the dimness of his office.

“Ah,” Jon says, his gaze landing on the mug. “Right. You can…” He looks at the disastrously cluttered surface of his desk and, after some consideration, pushes a stack of papers to the side to make a mug-sized gap in the mess. “You can place it there.”

Martin does. He doesn’t mean to linger afterward. Even though things are ... better between them now that Martin is staying in the Archives and Jon seems to have softened slightly toward him, they’re not quite at the ‘hold a casual conversation’ stage of their relationship yet. Still, Martin finds himself standing in front of Jon’s desk long enough for Jon to glance back up from his computer, a small furrow forming between his eyebrows.

“Did you … need something else from me?” he says, sounding more confused than annoyed.

No, Martin means to say. I’ll be going now.

Instead, he says, “How are you doing?”

Jon stares blankly at Martin, like he doesn’t understand the question. Martin briefly curses his complete lack of a verbal filter at the worst times and purses his lips, telling himself that frantically trying to rescind the statement will only make things worse. “I’m … fine,” Jon says with a hint of incredulity in his voice, like he can’t fathom any reason why Martin would want to inquire after his well-being.

Good, Martin opens his mouth to say. Let me know if you need anything else.

Why he says instead, “I just … noticed that you haven’t been going home lately,” he doesn’t know. He hasn’t had a crush in so long—is this what it was like the last time? God, it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?

Jon still looks bewildered, though there is an edge of irritation to his voice when he says, “There is a lot to do here, Martin. I assure you, I can take care of myself.”

“Right, yeah.” Martin fights the urge to rub his hand along the back of his neck, settling for the inside of his wrist instead. “Just … I know I’ve taken your cot recently, and if you’re not going home at night, I—I would hate to feel like I’m making you sleep at your desk.”

“You are not making me do anything. I can make my own choices.” Jon purses his lips for a moment before saying, more gently, “Besides, you … have more need of the cot than me at the moment.”

Martin can’t help the little shudder that goes through him at the reminder of why, exactly, he is in need of the cot. “Yeah,” he concedes. Then, because it’s only been a week or so and he still feels like he hasn’t said it enough: “Thank you again, for … for letting me stay here.”

Jon’s expression softens into something almost sympathetic, just for a moment, before growing closed-off and shuttered once again. Martin’s traitorous heart thuds in his chest at the sight, just like it had when Jon had listened to his story impassively and then matter-of-factly offered him the cot like it was the only logical thing to do.

(He hadn’t understood why he’d reacted like that—pounding heart, sweaty palms, cottony mouth—until that night, staring at the dark, cracked ceiling of the Archives and running Jon’s words over and over again in his mind. But it wasn’t surprising, was it? Of course Martin would find himself attached to his prickly, no-nonsense boss who kind of hated him the first moment he showed him an ounce of kindness.)

“It’s … really no problem at all,” Jon says, sounding a bit stiff in a way that’s hopelessly endearing, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with Martin’s gratitude. Then, even more stiffly: “You’re … doing all right?”

The tentative concern in Jon’s voice is enough to bring a flush to the tips of Martin’s cheeks that he desperately hopes can’t be seen in the low light of Jon’s office. “Y-yeah. As well as I can be, I—I suppose.”

“Well,” Jon says in a businesslike voice, like he’s delivering a report, “if you need any further accommodations, please let me know. Given that this was a workplace incident and you were investigating the Vittery building on my request, the Institute and I are responsible for ensuring that you remain safe while you’re … displaced from your previous home.”

Martin has always been good at reading people. And for all that Jon wears various masks of professionalism and skepticism and authority, he’s still surprisingly easy to read. It’s easy to control an expression, to control a tone of voice, but Jon’s eyes are always so much more emotive than he probably means them to be. Right now, they’re flitting around the room, from Martin to the floor to his desk to the floor again, like they’re afraid to settle on one place for too long.

It’s easy to identify the emotion as guilt. It takes Martin a few more moments to place what, exactly, Jon is guilty for.

“It’s … not your fault, you know,” Martin says slowly. “What happened with Prentiss. You’re not … responsible for it.”

Martin expects Jon to brush him off—to tell him that he’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t expect him to say, with a voice that leaves no room for argument, “I am not responsible for Jane Prentiss’ presence in the Vittery building, yes, nor for the fact that she followed you home. But I would be remiss not to acknowledge that you encountered her while following up on a statement, per my request, and that I … was not as cautious as I should have been with regards to sending you on dangerous assignments.” Jon’s eyes are sheepish now, and a touch concerned. “I will be sure to take the appropriate precautions in the future, as it would be unacceptable for you to be injured or … otherwise hurt whilst performing your duties as an archival assistant.”

It’s not a heartfelt statement by any measure. Really, it’s just common decency, and definitely what should be expected from one’s superior in a line of work that is (apparently) much more dangerous than it appears to be on paper. But Jon’s eyes when they finally turn to Martin are softer than he’s ever seen them, even as his expression remains carefully neutral and professional, and it feels like Jon has just said something profoundly kind.

Martin’s heart has some stuttering, skipping things to say about that particular fact.

“Um,” Martin says eloquently. “Th-thanks.” He considers mentioning again that Jon really isn’t at fault for sending him into a building that, for all Jon knew, contained nothing more than a few very persistent spiders. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds the little scrap of kindness he’s been given close to his chest, stammers something about getting back to work, and leaves Jon’s office before he says something embarrassing like I like it when you care or you have kind eyes or we could share the cot if you stay too late.

Tim wiggles his eyebrows at Martin as he takes a seat back at his desk, and Sasha gives him a much more subtle knowing look. Martin ignores both of them and busies himself with the statement sitting on the corner of his desk, diving back into the formatting he’s been struggling with all morning.

Jon is his boss. Jon doesn’t even really like him, when he’s not feeling guilty for almost getting Martin killed. It’s never going to work between them.

A bit of the tension bleeds out of Martin’s shoulders. His eyes drift back toward the door to Jon’s office—the golden nameplate outside it, embossed with Jon’s name, the frosted window, the old, warped wood—and he feels something light and comfortable settle in his chest.

Jon is prickly and lovely and blunt and awkwardly conscientious and completely unattainable. Jon is never going to look at Martin with affection in his eyes and ask Martin to run away with him to pursue a romantic, fairy-tale ending, and Martin is never going to feel that intense, awful discomfort that seeps into the gaps where the love once was. He can blush and stammer and imagine holding Jon’s hand and kissing the inside of his wrist and tangling his foot with Jon’s underneath a table, and nothing will change.

It’s never going to happen between them. And it’s better that way.

.

.

.

The car ride to Scotland is quiet. Jon keeps sneaking glances at Martin when he thinks Martin isn’t paying attention, as if Martin will vanish if he doesn’t keep a watchful eye on him. It should be irritating, but … maybe he’s right. Martin doesn’t feel fully here yet. He still feels empty and numb, like all of the emotion and life and things that make him him have been cut away, consumed by the salty fog that had filled his lungs and stung his throat as he inhaled.

Peter Lukas is dead. Martin had felt it happen with a sort of empty detachment—the ripples of fog as Peter disintegrated into nothing but mist and static. Jon hasn’t spoken about it since they left the Lonely, but Martin had seen the tension in his shoulders as they’d returned to their flats to pack and taken the keys to the car from Basira and made their way painstakingly through London traffic.

Martin had wanted to tell Jon that it was all right—that everything was going to be okay. But his throat refused to form the words. It took all of his energy to remain present and solid, and he just … couldn’t. So he remained silent and gripped Jon’s hand as tightly as he was able and focused on not giving in to the Loneliness that still lingered underneath the surface of his skin.

Now, both of Jon’s hands are on the wheel of the car, his fingers and elbows rigid and stiff. Generic pop music spills out of the radio, the signal distorted enough that Martin only catches about half of the song, the rest swallowed by static. Better than him, he thinks absently. Right now, he feels as if he’s only static.

He can’t remember if he was like this before the air opened wide in front of him and he was swallowed whole by the fog, the panopticon gone in an instant and replaced with nothing but endless gray. He was … close, he thinks. Every day, things grew dimmer, his own thoughts and feelings more difficult to get a handle on. It grew harder and harder to remember why he was resisting at all. What his goal was, other than to just … be alone. He thinks he would have forgotten entirely, had Jon not been three floors beneath him, alive and breathing and reminding him that he was doing this—all of this—for a reason.

It had been … lovelier than Martin ever could have imagined, falling in love with Jon. It grew within him like a garden, new flowers cropping up every day. Some were white and delicate, blooming in his lungs when he looked at Jon and felt the all-consuming need to bundle him up in a blanket and make him tea and hide him away from the things in the world that wanted to hurt him. Others were purple and angular, blossoming with every lunch they had together and story Jon told him. And some were red and thorny, roses with waxy petals that made Martin’s cheeks grow hot every time Jon said his name like it was special or treated him kindly or smiled.

So when things grew difficult—when the loneliness crept too close, when he grew too comfortable being invisible, when he had to look Jon in the eye and tell him that he didn’t want to see him—Martin retreated to the quiet garden in his soul. He ran his fingers along the petals and stems and leaves and reminded himself that he needed to do this, or he’d lose Jon again and the garden would shrivel and die.

It had been an easy decision, in the end.

There’s a soft crunching noise, and Martin breaks free from his thoughts to see that they’ve transitioned from the smooth asphalt of the motorway to an unpaved gravel road. It’s bracketed on either side by trees, and though the sun has long since set, Martin can still see the gentle swell of hills around them, outlined softly in the moonlight. He thinks, for a moment, that he sees fog, clustering around the bases of the hills and swirling around in tight eddies, but when he blinks, the image is gone.

“We’re almost there,” Jon says quietly. It’s one of the few things he’s said to Martin the entire trip. Then, after a moment: “It’s … rather nice out here.”

Martin supposes it is. The landscape around them had been a vibrant green before twilight had washed it out into deep blues, and there have been cows dotted around the fields, shaggy and brown and grazing contently. It’s a stark change from the grays and browns of central London, with buildings on all sides and people everywhere and no chance to ever really see the stars. If circumstances were different, Martin thinks he would be cooing over the cows and trying to get Jon to stop so he could take pictures and enjoying his first trip outside of England.

Instead, Martin just nods.

Jon seems to understand. He sneaks another glance at Martin—full of something soft that Martin, in his foggy state, doesn’t quite know how to parse—but remains silent for the rest of the trip. It could easily be a stiff, uncomfortable silence, but … it’s not. It feels companionable.

When did being around Jon become so easy?

Daisy’s cabin is small and squat, nestled between two hills and idyllic in a way that doesn’t match the rough-hewn, steel-eyed woman Martin had known. The inside is dusty and cold, and Jon mutters something about central heating before disappearing down the corridor and leaving Martin standing in the living room, staring at the place he’ll be living in for the foreseeable future.

The place he’ll be living in with Jon for the foreseeable future.

Martin feels something in his chest stir at that—a strange, twisting emotion that’s there and gone before he can put a name to it. He shivers, in a way he doesn’t think is from the cold, and goes to find Jon.

He … doesn’t think he should be alone right now.

They find an old, rusted radiator that miraculously still works, pumping out hot air with a groan of metal. Jon digs a set of musty sheets out of the linen closet and begins dressing the bed. Martin notes the lack of a second bedroom, and he thinks he might object to the implication that they’ll be sharing a bed if he weren’t aware of the fact that he might vanish if left alone for too long. (Or if he were himself enough to feel embarrassed. Or to feel anything.)

He doesn’t think anything shows on his face, but Jon’s always been keen, even more so now that knowledge drips into his mind like water from a leaky faucet. Jon’s hands flutter over the sheets for a moment before he says, “I … hope this is all right?”

Martin tries to find his voice to agree, but the energy required to summon it is too much, so he settles for a shallow nod. He doesn’t think it’s a sufficiently enthusiastic agreement, but Jon doesn’t question it. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, then says, “And … you’re all right?”

It’s a bit of a ridiculous question, really. No, Martin isn’t all right. No, there’s nothing Jon can do about it. No, he doesn’t know when things will be better. Or if they’ll ever be better.

Martin just looks at Jon, eyebrows slightly raised. Jon lets out a small, dry laugh. “Right. I … suppose that was a silly question. I—I meant…” Jon hems and haws for a long moment before finally saying, “Do you feel … safe, here? W-with me?”

That question has a much easier answer.

When Martin nods without hesitation, Jon visibly relaxes. “Good,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “That’s … that’s good.”

They stand there for a moment longer, the silence between them thick and heavy but not uncomfortably so. Finally, Jon clears his throat and says, “Well, I—I suppose we should rest then. We can … talk tomorrow?”

Martin nods and tries to smile. He doesn’t quite manage it, but … that’s all right. For now, this is enough.

Jon retreats into the bathroom, and Martin finds himself overcome with exhaustion. He slips into the soft pajama trousers he’d absently stuffed into his duffle bag, climbs under the covers, and is asleep before the sound of running water from the other room abates.

.

.

.

Martin doesn’t remember what happened in the Lonely. Things had been foggy and disjointed, slipping through his grasp when he tried to hold onto them. He barely remembers what came after, when Jon had led him away from the sand and the fog and the waves, his palm a searing heat against Martin’s. His first few days at the safehouse are spent in a similar fog, like each muscle in his body is frozen solid and he’s slowly attempting to warm them with a matchstick flame.

His third day is … better. His fourth, better still. By the end of the first week, Martin feels more himself than he has in months, if still acutely aware of the fog that now lives in his lungs and creeps out of his throat when he thinks too hard about what’s transpired or when Jon is out of sight for too long.

Martin remembers what it’s like to be happy. He feels it when he shuffles sleepily into the kitchen on their eigth morning in the safehouse and sees Jon standing in front of the stove, hair tied up in a neat bun and eggs sizzling in a pan in front of him. He remembers what it’s like to be frightened. He feels it when he wakes at night, shivering and shaking with the lingering memory of dreams of nothing but endless fog and aching loneliness.

And he remembers what it’s like to be in love.

He remembers it just in time to lose it.

The worst thing, Martin thinks, is that he’d almost managed to convince himself that it would be different this time. He knows, logically, that it’s not that simple. He’d done a little bit of research after what happened with Nino, reading through a few web pages on aromanticism before becoming overwhelmed and closing out of every single one of them. He tentatively returned to them a few years later after realizing that this wasn’t something that he was going to grow out of or move on from.

He had difficulties settling on a label, partly because of the sheer number of them and partly because he … didn’t quite know how to categorize his feelings. How could he categorize something that he’d only felt once before? Gray-romantic seemed the safest option, so that was the one he settled on.

(Not that he ever told anyone that he was arospec. It never seemed important, even when Sasha would needle him about his crush and Tim would make too-loud suggestive comments that could surely be heard through the door to Jon’s office.

… Martin misses Tim and Sasha. He thinks, if he’d had the chance—if he’d had more time—they would have been the first people he told.)

Martin knows that his relationship with romantic attraction is complicated. Yet somehow, he’s still found it within himself to hope that this time, things will be different. This time, when he tells Jon that he’s very in love with him and has been for a while, those words will continue to be true even after they’re spoken. (He ignores the fact that the actual thought of saying them aloud makes his stomach twist and his mouth grow chalky.)

But, just like with Nino, Martin doesn’t get the chance to try. Jon beats him to the punch.

“I … I love you,” Jon says quietly. He has Martin’s hand in his, and he’s holding it so gently Martin might cry. There were things Jon said before this moment—a conversation that has led them here—but Martin is having a hard time recalling any of them. All he can think is no, no, not now, not here.

His skin crawls. His hands are clammy, and he’s sure that Jon can feel it. He has the instinctive need to get away, but he’s also frozen in place, the lump in his throat sealing away all of the words that he should be saying.

He should be saying something.

The silence stretches on between them, the vulnerability on Jon’s face slowly morphing into concern. “... Martin?”

He sounds so confused, and Martin … he can’t. He just can’t. He doesn’t think he’ll survive the moment when that confusion turns to hurt.

So Martin swallows sharply and forces his hand to squeeze Jon’s and says, “I love you too.”

And he does, in a way. He wants Jon here, by his side, eating breakfast next to him and rambling to him about whatever latest thing has piqued his interest and listening to Martin describe the cows he’s seen on his walks. The thought of Jon leaving—of losing him, the same way he lost Nino—makes his stomach twist into knots, because Martin loves him.

Just … not in the way that Jon thinks he does. Not anymore.

And Martin can’t help but feel guilty about that fact.

Jon frowns at Martin for a moment more, like he can tell that something’s wrong but he’s not entirely sure what. Martin breathes out slowly and gives Jon as genuine a smile as he can muster, trying to convey that everything is fine. That nothing’s wrong—why would anything be wrong?

It must work, because Jon exhales slowly, his expression softening into one of the gentle smiles that Martin has grown so fond of. He rubs a thumb over the back of Martin’s hand in a motion that should be comforting but only reminds Martin of the fact that Jon is doing it because he loves him.

Martin thinks that Jon is going to kiss him then—isn’t that usually what comes after things like this?—and dread coils in his stomach. But Jon doesn’t. Later, Martin will find out that Jon dislikes kisses just as much as he does (though for different reasons). For now, though, Martin can only feel relief when Jon squeezes his hand once more before letting go and standing. “I’ll go make us some tea,” he says quietly, then retreats to the kitchen.

Thinking back on it, Martin wonders if Jon knew then. That something was wrong. But for now, he just feels relieved that he has the space he needs to breathe.

.

.

.

It’s their second week at the safehouse, just a few days after Jon told Martin that he loves him, that Jon finally sits Martin down after dinner and says softly, “Martin, am I … am I making you uncomfortable?”

“What?” Martin says, like he has no idea what Jon’s talking about. (Like a liar.) “No. What … what makes you think that?”

Jon wrings his hands together. He’s wearing one of Martin’s sweaters, and Martin doesn’t know how he feels about it. The clothes sharing is fine. The fact that Jon is clearly perceiving the clothes sharing as a romantic gesture is … less than fine.

Martin told himself that it would be okay if Jon perceived their relationship as a romantic one and Martin didn’t. He was good at pretending. And besides, how different could things be?

Very different, as it turned out. In all the ways that mattered.

Jon seemed to take any opportunity he could to touch Martin—a hand brushing against the small of his back when he passed behind him to grab a mug, an ankle nudging against his underneath the table as they ate, a head resting on his shoulder as they sat side-by-side and read. Martin had never been particularly touch-averse or touch-starved; touch was just … touch. He’d liked it when Tim had tousled his hair or when Sasha had thrown her legs across his on the breakroom couch, but he didn’t feel like he was missing out on anything on the days he went without any human contact at all.

Now, it’s all Martin can do not to flinch away from Jon’s touches, knowing that each one is delivered with love and affection that Martin can’t return. Though perhaps he hasn’t been doing as good of a job as he’d thought, judging by the concerned look Jon is giving him now.

There have been other things too—whispered I love yous in the early mornings and soft smiles that seem somehow more and little gestures that are so Jon but also so romantic—and Martin wants so badly to disappear back into the fog in those moments. But that … that wouldn’t be fair to Jon. It’s not his fault that Martin is like this, after all.

(It’s not Martin’s fault either. He knows this, logically. He’d spent a long time hating himself for what happened with Nino, for how he couldn’t just be normal and go on dates and enjoy something that the rest of society seemed to prize above all else. It had taken him years to finally come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t broken, and he couldn’t be changed. That this was just … who he was.

It doesn’t mean that sometimes, he doesn’t wish that he could be someone else. And he’s never wanted it more acutely than when he stares at Jon’s kind brown eyes and soft smile.)

So Martin lied and lied and lied. And he thought he’d been doing so successfully. But here Jon is, frowning at him, a careful distance between them, and Martin feels his chest begin to tighten.

“I just…” Jon begins, then stops. He looks down at the couch, studying the ugly floral pattern with apparent rapt fascination. Martin doesn’t know what to say, so he waits anxiously until Jon finally continues, “It doesn’t feel like you’re … happy. I know that things have been hard, a-and … it’s all right if you still need time after the Lonely, but it…” Jon swallows. “It feels like some of it may be because of me? W-when I touch you, sometimes you get … tense. And sometimes…”

“Jon?” Martin prompts after a moment, the word strangled by the growing lump in his throat.

“Sometimes,” Jon says quietly, “when you tell me that you love me, it … it feels like you’re lying.”

And the way Jon says it—tentative, with wide, hesitant eyes, like he’s the one that’s the problem—makes Martin’s desire to keep up the ruse crumble away in an instant.

It still isn’t easy to come clean. But he forces himself to do it anyway.

“It’s complicated,” he begins, then winces. Not a good start. Sure enough, Jon’s shoulders grow tense, and he shifts slightly further away, like he thinks Martin wants more space. Because he thinks he’s done something wrong. “You haven’t done anything wrong,” Martin adds quickly. It’s not you, it’s me, he thinks wryly. “It’s … not your fault.”

Jon opens his mouth—to say what, Martin doesn’t know. He barrels on before Jon gets the chance to speak, his haste making his words harried and blunt.

“I’m aromantic.”

Jon blinks at him, clearly surprised by the abruptness of the statement. After a long, awkward moment, during which it becomes abundantly clear that Jon is waiting for Martin to make the next move, Martin continues, “My relationship with—well, with relationships—i-is complicated. I-it’s, um … it’s hard to explain? A-and I don’t want you to think that I—I don’t care about you. I want to be here, w-with you, just…”

“Not in a romantic capacity?” Jon finishes softly.

Martin exhales heavily, feeling a bit like a hole has been punched in his chest and he’s slowly deflating. “Yeah.”

Jon is looking at him with soft, kind eyes, and Martin doesn’t know what to do with them. So he buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice coming out muffled.

“Hey, hey.” Jon’s hand brushes against Martin’s shoulder before pulling away quickly, and that just makes Martin feel worse. “You haven’t done anything wrong either.”

“Yes, I have,” Martin says into his palms. “I lied. I let you think that I—I was still in love with you, and … Christ, that was shitty of me.”

“I … do wish you had told me sooner,” Jon concedes. “But … only because I care about you, Martin, a-and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me.” He hesitates. “You … do know that I’m not mad at you, right? Th-that I wouldn’t have been mad, o-or upset, or hurt, if you told me that you didn’t feel the same way about me?”

Martin takes a deep breath, then another. “But I did,” he says raggedly. “For … for so long, I did. Ever since Jane Prentiss locked me in my flat for two weeks and you believed me when I told you about it a-and let me stay in the Archives. A-and I didn’t lie, in the Lonely. I did love you, a-all the way up until…”

Martin trails off. Jon lets the silence linger for a moment before saying gently, “If you don’t want to explain it to me, o-or if it’s hard, you don’t have to. But … if you can, I’d like to understand. For myself, a-and for you.” He wraps his hands tightly around his knees where they’re tucked against his chest. “This is important, and … I want to get this right.”

Martin exhales. He picks at a loose thread on the couch between them, focusing on it so he doesn’t have to meet Jon’s eyes and can pretend like he isn’t so extremely exposed and vulnerable right now. “I … I do want to explain. O-or I want to try. It’s … hard, though. Mostly b-because I’ve never had to explain it to anybody else? But also because … I don’t really understand why I’m like this.”

Jon opens his mouth, and Martin holds up a hand. “I know, I know—you don’t … have to comment on that.”

Jon closes his mouth and tentatively shifts so his knee is pressing against Martin’s. Martin waits for the tingling of his skin, the pins-and-needles discomfort, but it never comes. Maybe it’s because he knows that this is an act of comfort rather than one of affection. It’s … really nice.

He presses back with a sigh, feeling a bit of the tension and nerves drain out of him. “I—I get that love is difficult for me,” he says quietly. “I’ve just … always had trouble with the fact that what makes it difficult is that I’m someone who apparently never actually wants their love … requited. And if it is, I just … can’t anymore. It all goes away, a-and I just … fall out of love?”

Martin can feel Jon’s eyes on him, inquisitive and searching, but Jon doesn’t say anything. There’s a moment of silence between them, during which Martin tries and fails to collect his mess of feelings and thoughts and emotions into something that he can verbalize. Finally, Martin sighs and says, “It’s ironic, isn’t it. I’ve loved you for so long, a-and I still do, but … not in the way you love me. Not anymore. And now you’re the one who—who loves someone w-who doesn’t … who can’t…”

“Oh, no, Martin.” Jon’s hand is covering his then, and it’s warm and gentle and lovely, and Martin could cry. “I’m not…” He hesitates, squeezing Martin’s hand once. “Well. I am still in love with you. In the … romantic sense. I—I don’t want to lie to you about that. B-but I also love you in … so many other ways. Y-you’re my friend, Martin, a-and you’re someone that I can trust. You … you make me feel safe, e-even when there’s … so much in my life that’s dangerous and unpredictable, and I know that you’ll … always be there for me when I need you to be. I want to be here with you, always. I would … be happy in a romantic relationship with you, yes. But I would also be happy to just be with you. In whichever way you will have me.”

Martin’s throat feels very tight. “Oh,” he says faintly. He feels a pressure at the corner of his eyes and realizes, with a flush of embarrassment, that there are actual tears collecting there. He stares hard at the lamp just behind Jon, trying not to let any of them escape.”You, um … you really … mean that?”

“Of course,” Jon says, like there’s no question to be had about the matter. “You are … such an easy person to love, Martin. In all the ways it’s possible to love someone.”

Martin tries—he really does—to keep the tears back. But it’s just … so much, and Jon is so lovely, and this is more than Martin ever thought he was going to be able to have. So he takes a shaky breath in, and on the exhale, a few tears slip free and trail down his cheek. He brings a hand up and scrubs them away, mutters a sorry underneath his breath, but Jon just squeezes his hand tighter.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, I’m … I’m here. I’m not leaving you.” Jon hesitates. “Provided that that’s … all right with you, of course.”

Martin can’t help the shaky laugh that escapes him. “Yes, it’s all right with me. Of course it is.”

Jon smiles, and Martin aches with it. “Good.” He nudges his knee gently against Martin’s. “Because this cottage would get very dull without you in it. Who would I talk to about all of Daisy’s awful romance novels?”

Martin laughs again, and it chases away most of the lingering tension in his body. “Be careful what you wish for. I’m going to start doing dramatic readings next.”

Jon’s eyes sparkle with humor, but his voice is sincere when he says, “I look forward to it.”

True to his word, over the next week, Martin does increasingly dramatic readings of the worn, water-warped romance novels stacked haphazardly on the safehouse shelves. (Skipping the, quote, ‘unnecessarily erotic’ bits to avoid Jon’s pinched look of discomfort and his own beet-red face as he stares down at words that should really not be used in a sexual context ever.) He bakes cookies, laughing when Jon drops the cup of flour he’s holding and ends up covered in it. He spends the first three walks after their conversation wringing his hands together before finally asking, in a series of nervous stutters, if Jon would like to hold hands while they walk.

“But not in a romantic way!” he hastens to clarify. “You just have very nice hands, a-and I’ve always liked the idea of holding someone else’s hand, but—you know, th-the romantic connotations of it aren’t … great, and … you know, now that I think about it, this was a stupid question, you don’t have to—”

And then Jon takes his hand and squeezes it gently, and Martin feels a warmth spread through him that he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

That’s been happening a lot lately. He … doesn’t think he minds at all.

Then, a few weeks after their conversation, Jon turns over in bed to face him and says, without any preamble, “Have you ever heard of a queerplatonic relationship?”

Martin has, but only in passing, so he shakes his head. Jon explains, sounding very much like he’s reciting the wiki page for the concept, which is … more endearing than it has any right to be, probably.

“Does … does that sound like something you might be interested in?” Jon says nervously. “W-with me, of course. If that wasn’t … clear.”

Martin nods before Jon is finished speaking. “Yeah,” he says, maybe a bit too eagerly. Then, quieter: “Yeah. I’d … I’d like that.”

Jon smiles then, bright and wide and lovely, and it occurs to Martin—not for the first time, and probably not for the last—that he can have this. That he can be with Jon—maybe for the rest of his life, though that’s a … big thought that he definitely isn’t ready to look at head-on yet—without the dates and the kissing and all the other romantic gestures that Martin always thought were necessary for something like this. That they can be happy, together.

That Martin can have his fairy tale ending, and it doesn’t have to look like he’s always been told it should.

Martin smiles back at Jon, reaching across the bed to brush his fingers lightly against Jon’s. And for the first time in a long, long while, he finally feels like he’s home.

[spacedikut]

exam help ; spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

summary: a self-indulgent blurb about spencer helping with exams :) 1.7k

a/n: first fic of the year :D happy 2021!

masterlist

Another anguish-filled screech reverberates from your and Spencer’s shared office, bringing even your pet fish in the tank to attention.

It’s the third one this hour. Spencer tries to ignore it, just like you told him to, but God you sound like you’re in pain and Spencer can’t exactly ignore that, can he? He loves you and cares for you and- oh. A thump reaches his ears. A textbook, maybe? Did you punch your textbook?

He considers for a moment that the neighbours will be alarmed, perhaps call the police or tentatively knock with a, “Is everything okay in there?”

It wouldn’t be the first time.

What would he tell them? Oh, my apologies, my partner has exams coming up and just told me they get why unsubs do that now. I am also terrified.

There are many instances where Spencer feels useless. During his job, when his mother would have an episode, when his friends have problems he just wouldn’t understand. But, somehow, and maybe controversially, this is the worst type of uselessness. The type that leaves him staring at the wall, questioning everything, the type that makes his stomach drop because all he can do is watch.

He’s been watching you for the last two weeks. He’s sick of watching, of being no help, and he needs to do something before he breaks and does something illegal.

(The illegal thing is doing your exams for you - not illegal as in, perhaps, murder)

Your frazzled head pops out from the office, one hand rubbing your eyes and a permanent frown etched on your face, and with a fragile voice you ask, “Can you make me a coffee, please?”

Now, Spencer feels hypocritical, but he has to say it. “Another? Are you sure?”

He sees the internal battle within you, how you try your hardest not to snap. It’s not his fault you’re stressed. He’s just trying to help. “Yes, I’m sure. Please, Spence,”

“Of course. I’ll bring it in.”

“Thank you.” With a pained smile, you’re gone again into the dark abyss of where you’re studying.

With quick, ingrained movements, Spencer makes your coffee with too much creamer and marshmallows. Unusual, yes, but your current diet consists of coffee and whatever he can force you to consume – like marshmallows.

But then, hello, he spots a chocolate bar haphazardly close to the bin, grabs it, and hopes you let him watch you eat it.

Stepping into the room as quietly as possible, he’s smacked in the face by the smell of lavender. It makes him nauseous, the intensity of it, quickly followed by a lurch of his heart because you poor thing, you’re being crushed by the weight of your degree – literally. The other day you purchased an insanely heavy weighted blanket and you’re drowning in it.

Now, if you were to ask Spencer who the most beautiful person on the planet is, he’d say you in a heartbeat. He’s thought that since you first met and, years later, still stands by that. But now, right now, glowering at him in the dimly lit, lavender drenched study that you used to love oh-so-much? You have the face of a French bulldog, all grumpy and furrowed and too many creases on your face to make Spencer feel like he’s actually helping when he places the coffee and snack on your desk.

Despite the crabby expression, your words are filled with love and appreciation – which happens to be Spencer’s favourite mix. “Thank you, my love.” You take a sip of the coffee, hum in delight, and for the first time in days there’s a spark of something other than torment. “You’re the best.”

Spencer’s hand holds the back of your neck and he places a series of soft kisses to your temple, mumbling, “I love you. Very much. Is there anything else you need?”

“Death.”

“Okay. I’ll work on it.”

At that, you grace Spencer with a weak half-smile. It’s enough to overwhelm Spencer, overflowing and only able to be shown through a chaste, encouraging peck on your lips and a half-hug, Spencer bent at the waist to hold you in your desk chair. He noses your hair, hoping his closeness will alleviate some stress, before stepping back and praying his eyes tell you everything he wants to say but know will elicit annoyance from you.

I love you. Take care of yourself. Rest, please. You can do this, but not if you over exert yourself. I love you.

Your eyes tell him, I’ll try. I love you. And that’s all he can ask for.

But when he leaves, shuffles past his bookshelf, his eyes catch sight of an old file that reminds him of when he was preparing for his own exams.

He gets an idea.

+++

It takes another two days, full of late nights involving work that isn’t staying up and distracting himself with books to avoid worrying over you and how late you go to sleep, and reading that leaves Spencer in awe of you and everyone in your field.

A part of him is amazed by how he wheelbarrowed the resources behind you without you noticing, another is worried about that fact, and the rest of him is excited that he can finally do something that will actually help. At least, he hopes.

(When everything is said and done, despite being endlessly grateful, you also inform Spencer that simply being there and being him and getting you coffee every time you ask is more than enough, really)

With pride, he leans back on the couch, observing his creations on the coffee table. There’s plenty of different colours, all representing a different topic, and he presses the thumbs up to like the Youtube video he was using to ensure his handwriting is easy to read.

Flashcards. Hundreds, if Spencer counted correctly. The textbooks he stole – borrowed – from under your nose lie next to his feet, the weight of them combined more of a workout than he’s (voluntarily) done in eons.

He only hopes you don’t think it’s too late, think he’s overstepping or-or that he’s doing those things that he’s been accused of before – thinking he knows best (he does, but whatever), overbearing arrogance, an unwillingness to hear and accept other people’s way of doing things.

He just wants to help. He wants you to know he’s here for you, no matter what you need. This is the thing that lets him believe he’s doing something, something good and useful. Spencer just wants to be useful.

He’s convinced you to eat a proper breakfast – fruit, oats, bread, meat, a whole buffet – and you sense something is amiss when you hear slow, tentative footsteps creeping from your bedroom.

Spencer, still in his pyjamas, glasses perched on his nose, approaches with a shallow box in his grasp. You swallow your bite, turn to face him. “What’ve you got there?”

The box is slid onto the counter next to your plate hesitantly, as if he regrets his actions as he’s doing them. Peering in, you see a blur of colour, stacks on stacks of rectangular paper filled with writing and questions and even a tips! section.

You pick up the first batch, all light blue, and flick through them, heart getting bigger and bigger with every word you read. And when you realise what they are, what Spencer’s done ­– for you – your heartrate has skyrocketed and the watch on your wrist is asking you if you’re okay.

“You made me flashcards?” You ask, in awe, again looking at the love of your life to find he’s already staring at you.

“I did,” He tells you, apprehensive and scared, already backtracking, “But, if you don’t think they’re useful, or-or you think I’m overstepping – I’m not trying to, I promise, I just thought…” He starts nervously shuffling and reshuffling some of his creation. “Flashcards are known to engage active recall and metacognition. Research consistently finds that applying metacognitive strategies tends to ingrain memories deeper into your knowledge, and that this kind of active recall retrieval practice leads to one-hundred and fifty percent better retention than passive studying, so…”

Your hands have a mind of their own, pulling what feels like an endless amount of cards out and turning them in your hands, from the questions on the front to the answers on the back, the ones with hints and advice and there’s several with doodles that are so Spencer you hold them to your chest. You’re so enamoured by this man that is still rambling and bumbling because he takes your silence as distaste.

“I just- I hate seeing you so stressed, so I made these. You don’t have to use them, of course. They’re not even that great. It’s not that I don’t think you’re capable, you’re beyond capable, or that your methods don’t work- Just, personally, I love flashcards. I used them all the time when studying, even though I didn’t really need them, so perhaps a change of medium would do you good-“

A warm hand on his own that keep fidgeting stops him mid-stream of consciousness.

“Thank you,” You say, earnestly, “Really. These are lovely.” You leap from your seat, wrapping Spencer in warmth and love and care, and he shivers when he feels your hot breath on his ear when you repeat your thanks again and again.

When he pulls you even closer, so your torso curves into his own, you feel the lightest you have in weeks. You’re in the arms of the man you love, who knows you love him too and you know loves you so much – enough to spend several nights reading your cursed textbooks so he could create something that might help – and now you’re confident that you can do it. With the help of Spencer and his lovingly hand-made flashcards, you can do it.

And if, somehow, it goes awry, that’s okay too. Because you’ll still have Spencer, your number one fan, who will be there to comfort you and advise you in any way he can. He’ll never let you doubt yourself, never allow a self-deprecating joke if he can help it, because if he has to, he’ll love and support you enough for the both of you until you can do it yourself.

The world feels a little brighter, your breaths feel a little lighter, all because of Spencer. So you kiss him, murmur love against his lips, and get ready to take on whatever dares to come your way.

+++

tags: @pinkdiamond1016 @bluerose512 @andreasworlsboring101 @roses-and-grasses @ta-ka-shi-ma @ogmilkis @chiffonchronicles @rexorangecouny @unmistakablyunknown @goofygubler14 @gublertoon @averyhotchner @wheeledup @shadyladyperfection @joodeduarte @calm-and-doctor @

[gumnut-logic]

Late

I had a bit of a rocky night last night with a sick daughter and lots of lost sleep. She’s okay, but I was up between 2.30 and 5.30am. She went to bed at 4.30am and I took the opportunity to relax by writing self indulgent sleepy fic starting with our two eldest boys. I was totally wiped at the time, so didn’t finish it until tonight.

Warning: 2228 words of fluffy self indulgent goop that goes nowhere. Perfectly attuned to a slightly depressed, sleep-deprived Nutty. Also, lots of Virg, possibly so floppy he fell out of character. Ultimately Scotty took over, but it was supposed to be about both of them, so I don’t mind. ::eyes the Scotty fans who have me surrounded::

Many thanks to @tsarinatorment​ @janetm74​ and @scribbles97​ for the reading and support. ::hugs you lots::

I hope you enjoy :D

-o-o-o-

It was late.

It had been a very long day.

A very, very long day.

Scott had been held back at the danger zone by bureaucratic nonsense and a CEO throwing a fit over a couple of Thunderbirds parking in his carpark and the resultant damage to a nearby building.

The insensitivity and self-involvement had John reining Scott in over comms. It wasn’t like he was going to hit the guy, really, no matter how satisfying it might have been. But it had been a gruelling and messy rescue digging people out of a collapsed shopping mall.

He and his brothers had been digging for hours.

Eventually he had to call it and had sent Thunderbird Two back to base.

He had intended to follow shortly after, but...obstacles.

It was just past three in the morning when One streaked into a hover above Tracy Island. The shift to vertical flight was smooth and mostly subconscious. Scott felt his ‘bird in his bones.

As he lowered her through the gap left by the pool, a dim light from the lounge told him he wasn’t the only one awake.

He had his suspicions who it might be and that only had him working through post-flight faster.

It could be Grandma, but chances were it was Virgil waiting for him to come home.

He didn’t always do this. Only after the difficult ones.

And this one had been far from easy.

Scott hurried up to the locker room and, shucking his uniform, washed the sweat and grime from his skin. It felt good to be clean, an extra step further away from the tragedy they had left behind.

He didn’t bother getting dressed other than to throw on some pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt. he would check on his brother, possibly grab a quick bite of food and a drink, and then hit the sack.

The house was quiet as he made his way to the lounge. No doubt Grandma and Virgil combined were a force that saw the younger Tracys safe in bed. Virgil likely then turned on his partner in crime and bundled her off as well.

He was determined like that.

Sure enough, a quiet step into the lounge and he found his brother in their father’s chair.

Asleep.

Dark curls let loose from their product by a long-ago shower were a hastily combed mess on his forehead as Dad’s chair held Scott’s brother as if it were its owner. The worn upholstery cradling worn out rescue operative ever so gently.

Scott’s bare feet made little sound as he stepped across the hardwood floor. It was a warm night. The open windows let in a soft breeze off the Pacific laced with the honey scent of flowering pōhutukawa trees.

Virgil muttered and shifted in his sleep.

The sound drew Scott’s attention back to his brother. The desk lamp was the only source of light in the room beyond the starlight far above. The moon had already set and outside was almost as dark as it got, the ocean murmuring in the distance.

There was paper on the desk.

Scott didn’t use much in the way of paper himself. Most of his work was digital, often holographic and as ecologically sound as he could get it.

Virgil, however, did keep a stash of different surfaces to art on in his studio. Paper was one of them. Obviously, some had made it out tonight.

Pencil sketches covered the white sheets. Eyes, half drawn faces. Gordon popped up in one corner, a familiar smile on his face. Thunderbird One had her grapple out and was lifting something half-drawn.

He found his own face staring out of the paper. His drawn self was obviously angry and glaring at a faceless head.

Scott arched an eyebrow at the obscenity scratched into the cartridge under the non-person creature.

Virgil had obviously not been happy that Scott had been held up.

There were other words on the page amongst the drawings. Virgil doodling and possibly venting in the process. Even Scott could see the emotion drawn in graphite.

He sighed.

As if agreeing, Virgil snorted and tried to turn over in the chair, a manoeuvre that wasn’t recommended.

Scott caught his brother under his arms as he tried to slide off the leather upholstery.

He earned a grunt for his efforts. Bleary brown eyes opened and stared up at him. “Sc-t?”

“Hey.” A soft smile. “You planning on camping out tonight?”

Another grunt and his brother tried to right himself in the chair. “You took too long. Why didn’t you sic John on ‘em?”

“I did. But not until tomorrow. John needs his sleep as much as you do.”

“Yes. Yes, he does. Tol’ him.” Virgil’s eyes drifted closed again and he began to sink back into the chair.

“Oh, no you don’t. You’re going to bed, little brother.” Scott gripped Virgil a little tighter and pulled him up and out of the chair.

Various limbs pinwheeled a little and Scott ended up with his arms full of dopey brother, but he got the man on to his feet.

Virgil grumbled into his t-shirt and Scott let off a snort of a laugh. His biggest brother was hopeless when his sleep was disturbed. It was an ongoing source of prankdom – at the risk of the perpetrator’s life.

Hell, Gordon had managed to draw in a second pair of eyebrows on Virgil’s forehead once – while the man was supposedly awake and nursing his coffee.

The double-eyebrowed death monster that had resulted once enough coffee had been ingested was of legendary proportions. Grandma had literally roasted Gordon alive and a ban on markers on anyone’s faces had been instituted for all eternity.

Gordon was a multitalented artist, however, and simply switched mediums.

The honey had Scott blowing a circuit.

But dopey Virgil was a familiar and smile-inducing feature of the Tracy household.

Scott found himself grinning.

“Shuddup.”

Well, at least Virgil had managed a couple of neurons worth of thought.

Scott’s smile only got wider.

Virgil groaned and pushed his brother away and stumbled a little. “’M gonna bed.”

“You do that.” Scott had to stick out a hand and steady him as he wobbled into the side of the desk. “Need a hand?”

That triggered some incoherent grumbling that threatened bear territory. Scott couldn’t help himself and just grinned more as Virgil teetered away in the direction of the elevator.

The fact Scott had to save him from falling into the sunken lounge was probably a sign that the answer to his question was a definite ‘yes’.

A hand on his brother’s elbow prompted more grumbling, but the elbow wasn’t yanked away and by the time they made it into the elevator, Virgil had pretty much faceplanted himself into Scott’s shoulder.

The grin turned into a fond smile as he hit the button for the residential levels.

“You neeb togoto bed too.” It was muffled by the sleeve of Scott’s t-shirt.

“That’s the plan.”

“You bedda.”

Scott wrapped an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Or what?”

More incoherent grumbling.

Scott pulled him in a little tighter as the elevator doors opened.

It was like leading a zombie down the corridor, though Scott could easily empathise. He was looking forward to his own pillow as soon as he saw Virgil to his.

A yawn escaped.

His brother looked up as if the medic had bypassed his brain and booted in safe mode. “You need sleep. Go to bed.”

He gestured towards door to Virgil’s rooms. “After you.”

Virgil frowned. “You first.”

Scott rolled his eyes and, reaching around his brother, activated the door and, with a little manoeuvring, manhandled Virgil into his rooms.

“Hey!”

His hand returned to his brother’s elbow and he marched him into his bedroom, amid protests.

“You need to look after yourself.” Virgil finger was jabbed into Scott’s breastbone.

Was it possible for a human to have one half of his brain awake and the other asleep at the same time? Apparently, some birds could do that. Gordon had gone into great detail that year they spotted some migratory waders landing on their beaches mid-transit.

In any case, Virgil obviously wasn’t all there as Scott backed him up against the end of his bed and pulled back the covers. Virgil continued to nag Scott to bed with varying levels of coherence. Smiling, Scott gave his rambling brother a gentle nudge and their gentle giant went Gulliver, flat on his back.

“Scott?!”

The eldest yanked up the covers and muffled the outraged mutterings. “Yes, Virgil?”

But his protests began to fade away and, as Scott pulled down the covers a little and tucked them in, he realised Virgil’s eyes were already drooping again.

Dopey indeed.

He brushed curls off his brother’s forehead. “Sleep, Virg.”

“Mmm, Sco’, go bed.”

Softly. “I will.”

“Mmmhm.”

Scott couldn’t help but smile a little more as Virgil drifted off.

A final touch to his brother’s hair and Scott straightened, his body creaking enough to remind him, that yes, he needed his bed as well.

He slipped quietly out of Virgil’s room and secured the door. A glance down the corridor, a thought, and he walked quietly down to check on Gordon.

The last he had seen of his fish brother had involved sad eyes and concrete dust. A quiet step into his rooms and he found Gordon as he had suspected he would.

The aquanaut was tangled in his sheets and throttling his pillow.

There was a frown on his face.

Much practised manoeuvring and he managed to straighten the Fish out and untangle him from his bedclothes.

Half asleep protests were halted by a plushie squid that awake Gordon would claim to his death never left the mantle above his bed.

Scott knew better.

His little brother quietened, falling into a deeper sleep.

After that, Scott couldn’t help but check in on Alan. It was probably a fortunate thing, because opening the door found Alan asleep in front of it.

The littlest Tracy had a history of wandering in his sleep. Scott had it checked out and it was directly related to early childhood trauma. Which one was a game of pick one.

It was managed, but occasionally it flared up. One of the most common symptoms was climbing out of bed and sleeping on the floor. Sometimes, the piece of floor chosen was a little inconvenient.

Scott was just happy the piece chosen wasn’t a balcony. Five and now Eos had been tracking Alan while he slept for years and issued alerts if he should wander too far.

Scott slipped into the room sideways and, with cracking knees, lifted his little brother off the floor.

Fortunately or unfortunately, Alan shared his sleep type with Virgil and slept like the dead. So, it was easy to move him over to his specially plush rug and snuggle him up with a pillow and quilt from his bed.

Alan muttered something about Virgil pulling him up, possibly something to do with the day’s rescue.

Scott reached out and touched Alan’s cheek.

His little brother mumbled his name and leant into his hand.

Scott blinked. The emotion that suddenly gripped him was just a sign of how tired he was.

Letting go, he pushed to his feet and slipped from the room. In the corridor, he closed his eyes and leant back against the wall for a moment.

One to go.

He tugged at the collar of his t-shirt. “Eos? You there?”

“Where else would I be?” Despite the smart-ass remark, her voice was quiet. Something she had learnt the hard way.

He ignored the comment. “John’s status?”

“John is currently in REM sleep. No signs of nightmare. Pulse regular, respiration as to be expected, body temperature 36.7 degrees Celsius. John is well, Commander.”

Scott let out a breath. “Thank you, Eos.”

“You’re welcome. Kayo and Mrs Tracy are asleep in their rooms, as is Hiram. Which is a concern, if I may say so, because he left Max on the ceiling.”

A blink. “Again?”

“It would appear so.”

Scott groaned. “Keep him out of the hangars this time.”

“I will try. But you know how he is.”

A grunt and Scott pushed himself off the wall. “I’m going to bed.”

“Good. Virgil was adamant you do exactly that.”

A frown. “Or what?”

“He said ‘or I’ll knock his ass out and drag him there myself’. His tone seemed humorous, however, John said it was a half-truth.” A pause. “Which half, I’m not sure.”

Another grunt. “Both halves, most likely.” To stave off a round of questioning at that, Scott quickly followed up with, “Tracy Island out.”

The house fell quiet after that and he let his shoulders drop, rolling his neck as he made his way to his own quarters. In his rooms lay freedom. A moment where he could just be himself, relax and sleep.

Sleep.

The door clicked shut and exhaustion caught up with him. It was a matter of steps to his bedroom, a modicum of the last of his energy to shove the covers aside, and he let himself fall face first into his pillow.

His body melted into the mattress.

It had been a shitty rescue, but his family was all home, safe, uninjured and resting.

He could let go.

So he did.

-o-o-o-

 FIN.

[hiscyarika]

132: “ I haven’t slept in four days… ” with din? 💕

Word Count: ~900

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x Reader

Prompt: 132: “I haven’t slept in four days...” (from This List)

Warning(s): None

A/N: I enjoyed writing this one! It was another excuse for some self-indulgent softness. I hope you like it! Thank you for sending it in! 💕

Masterlist

Tag Lists

---

He’s been tense for days.

You’re not sure what it is, but it didn’t take long for you to notice the way he held his shoulders too stiffly, kept his back more straight than normal. Like he would break if you tried to bend him. He’s been quiet, only speaking to you when necessary. Din isn’t verbose by any means, but you feel like you’re back in the beginning of your relationship. He hardly spoke to you when he first brought you onto the Razor Crest. And even when you get him to speak, you get mostly monosyllabic answers.

So when he finally loses his temper, you know that there’s something very wrong.

“What’s the population density look like?,” you ask him, looking at the image of the planet projected on the dashboard. It’s a strange planet that you’ve never heard of before, but this is where he’s decided to land next.

“Just read the data. It’s right in front of you,” he says sharply, his voice sounding even more menacing when forced through the modulator. He turns his head quickly to look at you. You don’t have to see his face to know that his eyes are burning in anger, but the question is why.

“What? Din what is wrong? It was just a question,” you say, though you try your best not to contribute to his anger with your tone. It won’t do either of you any good in the end if you agitate him more.

He goes still and silent, watching you closely. And then suddenly he’s up and trying to leave the cockpit. You stand and move in front of him before he can get to the ladder. “No. You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on,” you tell him, putting a hand on his cuirass to keep him from moving. He still doesn’t answer you, remaining a statue as he stands there in front of you.

Until you hear the shaking breath escape him.

Your expression immediately softens, and you reach up towards his helmet, sliding your fingers underneath and cradling his jaw. It’s the only skin-to-skin contact you can give him right now, but it works. He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours. He goes soft and malleable in your hands. Whatever walls he had up, you’ve broken them down again.

“Hey,” you whisper. “It’s okay. Just relax,” you murmur, running your fingers across his jawline, feeling the stubble that’s grown there.

“I’m sorry, cyar’ika. I… I haven’t slept in four days…,” Din admits, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist and pulling you closer to him.

You frown deeply, slowly moving one hand to the back of his neck. You pull down the cowl a bit so he can still feel you, something you know helps ground him. “Why not? Why didn’t you say anything?,” you ask gently. You feel terrible knowing that he’s just been lying awake beside you for so many nights in a row, wide awake and holding you while you’ve drifted off into blissful slumber.

“I don’t know. I just can’t sleep. But I didn’t want you to worry,” he explains.

You pull back just a bit, shaking your head slightly. “Din, that’s not good for you. You need to let me help you,” you tell him, though this isn’t the first time you’ve had to tell him this.

“I know, cyar’ika. I just–”

“Shhh. Just come on,” you murmur, finally letting go of him. He releases you, watching as you move behind him to set the autopilot. Once you’ve used all the right controls, you take his gloved hand in yours, leading him back down to the hull of the ship.

Once you’re both standing near the little bunk, you press the button on his vambrace to turn out the lights. You’ve been on the ship long enough to be able to navigate it in the dark. This is all second nature to you now.

With the lights off, you start to remove the beskar from his body, carefully and masterfully working the many straps and buckles until it all lays neatly on a shelf not far from you. You’ve done this enough times that you no longer need to see. All the while Din stands there in silence, and with every piece of the armor that leaves him, you feel him grow heavier with exhaustion. He’s dead on his feet, and it makes you wonder how he even managed to stand this long.

The helmet goes last. You lift it slowly from his head, hearing the hisses and clicks as he’s released. You place it carefully with the rest of his armor. When you reach him again, you find that he’s removed his shirt himself. You take him into your arms, letting him bury his face in the crook of your neck. He leans heavily into you, and you feel your heart clench when you hear a soft whimper.

“I’ve got you. I promise,” you whisper. You lead him over to the bunk then, letting him lie there with his head resting on your chest and his arm wrapped around your torso. Running your fingers gently through his thick curls, you press your lips to the crown of his head. He melts at your touch, going limp against you as his body finally gives out.

“Sleep, my love,” you implore him.

It takes some time still, but eventually his soft snores meet your ears. Your lips turn up in a small smile, glad that he’s found rest again.

---

Permanent Tags: @theforceofdarkandlight @hail-doodles @aerynwrites@murdermewithbooks @themandjalorian @longitud-de-onda @readsalot73 @lovingtheway @talesfromtheguild @mystical-934  @lavenderl3mons @tiffdawg @lokiaddicted @adikaofmandalore @blue-tidal-wave @forever-rogue @flower-petal-blooming@fleurdemiel145  @cable-kenobi @opheliaelysia @pynch-bug

The Mandalorian Tags: @ginger-swag-rapunzel @adlerorzel-blog @mrsparknuts @deputytrash

[vixxscifiwritings]

gentle descent to seabed

Summary -  The rising tide interrupts them, water reaching up to their toes before receding. If Hongbin was more poetic, he would say the waves are hesitant to interrupt the new romance that has bloomed overnight.

Warnings - cheesy romance

Tag List - @tomatoholmes @merlionmen @seraphistols  @k-craze-97 @blossomtearsleo

Series

-

"I don't think I ever expected to run into you here" Wonshik says over the music. It's dulled down compared to the dance music on earlier in the night but still loud enough to stifle conversation. The crowd on the dance has whittled down to couples slow dancing or kissing.

"I don't normally come here" Hongbin admits. This pub is out of his way and he barely has enough time or strength left after working both his jobs to wander far.

"Hakyeon hyung has some family issues going on so I'm free from housekeeping duty for now" Hongbin tells him by way of an explanation.

"Yeah I noticed he cancelled his classes for the next week. Didn't show up to lab either" Wonshik recalls. "I hope everything is okay."

Hongbin nods in agreement. The explanation is probably a lie and an excuse to spend time with the stranger that has effectively moved in. It's funny because Hongbin was sure Hakyeon hyung didn't believe in love or romance and all of a sudden he's head over heels for this stranger.

Speculation aside, it isn't his place to gossip about his personal life with Wonshik who is simply Hakyeon's student. So he lets the topic slide and focuses on his food.

Honestly, Wonshik's presence is unplanned. The postgrad student happened to find Hongbin who originally came here alone to grab dinner and a few drinks. Hongbin invited him to join him, given how crowded the pub was and how some company was better than none.

It may also have to do with his slight attraction to said student.

Hongbin met Wonshik last year when he came home from the institute with Hakyeon, carrying some of assignments Hakyeon had to work on grading. Wonshik had his long hair pulled back into a ponytail and wore t-shirt on jeans but had looked incredibly attractive to Hongbin.

Hongbin knew he wore his heart on his sleeve so he hadn't acted on his crush. But the universe had other plans clearly as Hongbin kept running into Wonshik. Now that he knew the man, it felt like Wonshik was everywhere. It was a small town but it wasn't that small Hongbin swore.

And so he had resigned himself to living with his feelings and waiting for then to fade away.

When he looks to Wonshik sitting on the opposite side of the booth and how his dark brown hair reflected the neon disco lights he thinks, fading away could wait one more day.

They talk about the news and the happenings around the small town. Wonshik tells him about the new research at the institute. He has a way of explaining complex topics that helps Hongbin understand his research so it becomes infinitely more interesting than listening to Hakyeon talk about the same.

Wonshik's nose scrunches and Hongbin smiles involuntarily at how cute it looks. How cheesy, he mentally berates himself. But a little self indulgence is fine as long as Wonshik doesn't know.

Wonshik is blissfully unaware, talking about how Finding Dory and royal blue tangs and how they are endangered species that should really be protected better and not commercially exploited. Hongbin admires his passion for his field of research.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Wonshik asks, once the number of empty drink glasses is more than the table can hold and their combined tab might render them broke if they go on. They've crossed their alcohol limit three drinks ago and the pub offers nothing appealing to diver them any longer.

Hongbin agrees. The idea of not having to scream over the amplifiers is very appealing to his throat. (And under the street lights, he can probably admire Wonshik better.)

It's quiet outside the pub when Hongbin follows Wonshik out. The silence ahead is deafening and the music fades the further they walk. The hum of the crowd is replaced by a silence typical of urban nightscapes. The quiet is only disturbed by sounds of the engine of a passing car or the buzzing of air conditioners and generators outside residential buildings.

The neon lights of signs outside all day convenience stores is brighter than the flickering street lights but Wonshik isn't worried. He navigates it with a practiced ease that tells Hongbin he has walked this route multiple times.

They pick up more drinks from one of the convenience stores on the way. The buzz of alcohol has Wonshik in high spirits and he hums along to the song that was playing in the club before they left. He even break dances to make Hongbin laugh and Hongbin giggles because Wonshik is so cute. His long skinny legs make it funnier for some reason but Hongbin cannot comprehend why.

The cashier couldn't care less. She occasionally glances to make sure they aren't shoplifting but goes back to texting almost immediately. Once the boys leave, they resume walking to the seashore. The cold soda is sobering and conversation flows smoothly between the two.

As soon as they near the beach, Hongbin feels the wind get stronger and warmer. The sound of the waves hitting the rocks and the light from the lighthouse hit him together. It's an amusing sound gradient. From electric synth to city silence to water against rocks.

Wonshik guides him through the narrow alleyways that warp around the houses and the lighthouse and open to the beach. They kick off their shoes and Hongbin shivers a little when the sea breeze hits him.

"Are you cold?" Wonshik asks. Hongbin shakes his head but Wonshik didn't wait for a response to shrug his jacket off and put it around Hongbin. The closeness makes Hongbin blush and he is viscerally aware of Wonshik's body but isn't prepared for it being brought into the forefront of conscious thought suddenly.

"Won't you be cold then?" Hongbin asks, when Wonshik moved away and he pulls his jacket close. It's very warm and soothing. It triggers relaxation and exhaustion both at the same time in him.

"I'm used to it" Wonshik shrugs.

"Do you sneak out often then?" Hongbin asks. He remembers his college days and how he would often wander off to his friend's room to play games instead of studying. Wonshik's method is to sneak out onto the beach clearly and said man's guilty smile confirms his suspicions.

"I like walking around the beach at night. It's quiet and peaceful. Let's you think" Wonshik explains.

They dispose of the bottles by the recycling bins and kicks off their shoes and socks to feel the sand beneath their toes. The sand is wet and smooth since the tide receded barely an hour earlier. More of the beach is visible than Hongbin has ever seen in the early mornings when the high tide returns.

"Do you always have a lot on your mind?"

"Not really. But something about the beach makes a person philosophical."

Hongbin hums in agreement and they walk in silence till they find a spot to sit down on. They've been walking forever and his feet are grateful for the break. It's quite a long walk, Hongbin realizes belatedly. It didn't feel like it in Wonshik's company.

Wonshik sits down next to Hongbin. Their hands are very close and Hongbin's hand inches closer to Wonshik's. Their fingers don't touch but they could and Hongbin lets unsaid possibilities linger between them. It's as infinite as the grains of sand that like in between. Innocent and infinite, each just within reach should he gather the courage he needs.

Wonshik is more silent now. Their surroundings have rendered him sober and he looks more peaceful now. His serene smile calms Hongbin down too (though the nervous arrhythmia of his heart never really leaves). He looks out towards the sea and Hongbin looks to him.

"Do you know why I chose to study marine life?" Wonshik asks, his gaze not moving from the sea.

Hongbin shakes his head. Wonshik accurately takes the silence for a no.

"My grandmother was born in Japan. She moved to South Korea to be with my grandfather. She would tell me stories that her grandparents told her" he narrates, laying down so that his head lay on Hongbin's lap.

Hongbin hums in response. The nerves in his thigh are frayed, tingling on contact. The thin denim of his skinny jeans does nothing to prevent the warmth of Wonshik's cheeks seeping in.

"She belonged to a family of fishermen and women. She talked about different types of fish and different tides and different ways of catching them. She told me many myths of the sea" he continues.

"What kind of myths?"

"Of dragons that ruled the waters. Of a lost continent that lay submerged just off the edge of the island and in the middle of the vast east ocean. It had been lost many years ago and the people turned to sea creatures."

"That sounds a lot like the story of Atlantis."

"The folktale says that the people of Mu used so much black magic that the gods got angry and submerged their land. The good people they took pity on were given a chance to start over on Atlantis."

"That didn't end very well did it?"

"Not really. Humans never learn."

"I thought that when I grew up, I would be an adventurer. I would travel the seas and see all the wonderful things for myself."

"Did you see many wonderful things?" Hongbin asks curiously.

"Nothing that compares to you" Wonshik replies honestly. He traces random doodles on Hongbin's thighs and kisses the area closest to his lips. Hongbin can feel the silhouette of his lips and his toes curl in response to the physical action.

Hongbin's cheeks are red and this is the influence of alcohol he will swear later. Or probably the euphoria that comes from having your attraction reciprocated. Hongbin leans down and kisses Wonshik and his brain scrambles to find which of the two excuses to blame for that burst of courage. Wonshik hesitates at first but kisses him back and his brain throws itself out of the window at a breakneck speed.

Wonshik sits up and takes Hongbin's face and kisses it properly. His lips are as soft as the hands running through his hair and Hongbin melts, pliant under his affections. It's the effect of the sea air and the salty soda they've been drinking that Wonshik tastes salty and lemony. Hongbin thinks it's a wonderful departure from the sweet lips stereotype.

Wonshik takes his jacket off from Hongbin's shoulder and pulls the neatly tucked white T-shirt underneath out of his jeans. His hands roam under it as he deepens the kiss and Hongbin moans every time Wonshik's fingers brush against his nipples.

He pushes Wonshik's plaid over shirt off and unbuttons the shirt underneath. He kisses down the center of his neck to as low as he can go on his chest. Wonshik throws his head back and groans. When Hongbin pulls away, Wonshik chases. He kisses him on the neck and squeezes his waist. Both locations have heightened sensitivity and Hongbin whimpers when his body demands release of all the tension building up.

"My apartment isn't far away from here" Wonshik proposes. He leaves butterfly kisses all over Hongbin who doesn't really need incentive to agree.

"I don't know. The atmosphere is kind of romantic here" Hongbin teases. Wonshik laughs and Hongbin grins too. Kissing under the stars with the sounds of waves in the background is not all that bad. Not bad at all really.

Wonshik gets up first and pulls Hongbin up as well. Hongbin stumbles and Wonshik secures him by putting his arms around his waist. Hongbin's eyes twinkle when Wonshik uses the proximity to kiss him again.

"I've wanted to do that for a very long time" Wonshik confesses, resting his forehead on Hongbin's. Their height difference is negligible so their noses and lips align perfectly, Hongbin notices.

"And was it worth the wait?" Hongbin whispers. Wonshik can probably feels his lips move with how close they are.

Wonshik grins before lifting Hongbin up slightly and kissing him. Hongbin yelps before kissing him back. What cheesy nonsense is this? He didn't think anyone would ever sweep him off his feet literally. The force and speed with which Hongbin falls deeper for Wonshik could put dangerous whirlpools to shame.

Kissing Wonshik is like drowning but discovering you can still breathe on the other side. A heady rush of harsh bubbles foaming against your skin which then gives way to the still deep waters where everything else is obscured except the way the gentle descent to the seabed feels.

They kiss for a long time once Wonshik sets him down. The rising tide interrupts them, water reaching up to their toes before receding. If Hongbin was more poetic, he would say the waves are hesitant to interrupt the new romance that has bloomed overnight. But he isn't a poetic man. (He'll learn that Wonshik's romanticism makes up for it later).

Hongbin pulls Wonshik along to further inwards, walking back to the city roads but still holding hands so they don't let the other go. The sun starts to rise along with the morning tide. They've spent the entire night outside but they don't care.

The waters are coloured gold and red and Wonshik's brown eyes have flecks of golden in them. Hongbin's black hair actually has brown highlights which are visible in the sunlight. It's only the beginning of them exploring each other.

[shock777archive]

I got this question on deviantart, and I felt like reposting my answer here, in case anyone is interested :P 

THIS IS GONNA BE A LONG REPLY BUT BEAR WITH ME LOL When I first started drawing/am I self taught : I've been drawing since kindergarten. Anime specifically, since I was about 8 years old. so that's been uh...18 years since I've started drawing in the anime-esque style? I am self taught on these areas. I picked up a digital artist tablet at the age of 13 or so, (it was a wacom Graphire 4 4x5 in) so it's been 13 years of digital art practice i've gotten in. I have picked up several how to draw books over the years until i surpassed some of them. But even now i'm constantly referencing tutorials and poses, looking for ideas and color palettes, etc. I have taken some schooling in college for art. I took beginner's drawing and color theory and maybe a little of art history but that's about it before i quit lmao What inspired me to draw in the first place/what I first drew: The thing that inspired me to draw in the first place was my favorite cartoons. from a very young age i knew that cartoons weren't real, but it fascinated me that actual people could create almost living people. I related to cartoons, and even though they were fake characters, I just loved the idea of creating a whole world of my own. So I took up drawing in kindergarten. First things I drew were flowers, rainbows, trees, etc. But My first biggest undertaking was powerpuffgirls. lol This was the series that started it all. Began drawing tons of powerpuffgirls stories and oc's. For the next few years I would watch different things like all the standard cartoon network shows. But I watched yugioh and dbz and other anime things too. What also got me into anime art style was the online game neopets lol Their faeries designs ( http://images.neopets.com/games/pages/icons/screenshots/586/4.jpg ) kind of had an anime resemblance, so I started drawing those for a while. When I was 8 or 9 years old my father bought me my first how to draw manga book (this one in particular: https://www.amazon.com/Art-Drawing-Manga-Ben-Krefta/dp/1841931713  ) looking back on it, this book is terrible and the anime in it is so ugly looking lol. However, i used that thing religiously and began making my own characters like a blue elf girl and a human friend of hers. ( in fact, here's the post. i tried redrawing them recently lol: https://shock777.tumblr.com/post/145898896143/finding-old-art-is-the-best-cause-you-can-redraw ) ...Then the real transformation began once I started watching Teen Titans when it aired in 2003. I was 10 at the time. That show started my love for japan. The language interested me and I began researching Japanese songs and trying to sing along to them. I didn't know what the words meant, but the artistic style and meshing of western cartoons and anime of the show really piqued my interest. My earliest drawings of them suckedddd XD; As Teen Titans drew to a close near 2006-2007 ish, I picked up Naruto and then it was all over since then lol my anime style and weeb days really came into full force lol I thank naruto though. I learned how to draw more realistic anatomy as opposed to cartoony anatomy. It was a very wild ride, but it's all documented here on my deviantart page as I got this exact account around the same time! I started posting my work in 2008, so you can go back far enough into my gallery and see the progress XD; I keep the old cringe up because it just motivates me and hopefully others, to keep drawing and keep going farther! :) PHEW lol long history there XD I do have some of my old art!!! If you wanna see some, I've posted a little here: https://shock777.tumblr.com/tagged/old-art plus I already said there's a few still on my dA gallery haha Tips I can give to you: 1. And I think this is most important, JUST KEEP GOING. It's soooo tempting to quit drawing when things aren't going right and when you're not happy with how your art looks. Trust me, every artist I've ever known including myself have gone through this. It's so easy to compare your work to someone else's. The thing is, we're all in this together. No one expects a newborn to be able to file taxes or drive a car lol. We all have to evolve and change, and that change comes from consistent work. Art isn't an inherent talent, it is hard work that is honed over several years of blood, sweat and tears lmao JUST KEEP GOING. as I've mentioned, my old cringe art is still on my dA page. Back then when I was younger I was less concerned with things being perfect and I spam posted almost every doodle. And I began a "fanbase" i guess because of those days and my consistent posting. I've had this freaking deviantart page for 11 freakin years. If I had stopped drawing whenever I felt my art was imperfect or not good enough, I would have stopped posting around 2009. so...just keep going. And I'd even dare you to post your "shitty doodles" that you think aren't that great. Because you never know what someone else will see in it that you don't. Be confident, and never give up! 2. Soak up any tutorial and really focus on studying your favorite artist's styles. If there's something you want to replicate in your art that someone else is drawing, try to see how they do it. sometimes artists have tutorials posted and sometimes they don't. I have a few posted on my youtube channel ( https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLRB9xQBsGpfetNJbmXWZ1fL9d5IlqQs1w ) and some in my gallery. Don't exactly copy some things stroke for stroke, but try to add your little spin to something. Like sometimes I will see art senpai drawing a specific eye style I wanna replicate, but I don't like one part of the process. So sometimes I'll just add my own little addition, or just omit that process completely. Usually though, if the art style isn't necessarily super unique, you can copy a lot of mainstream styles without anyone really griping saying "oh you're just copying so and so's art style". It's important to look up to art senpais i think. They make me want to try harder lol 3. Take an art class if you're able. Color theory really helped me grasp things that I never had before. LIKE REFLECTIVE LIGHT FOR INSTANCE. I never drew that shit but now I do because DUH it's so freaking obvious lol It also helps to learn what colors neutralize others, complementary colors, analogous ones, etc. It's nice to have an eye for what matches together and to know the principles of art. I still have a lot of work to do when it comes to perspective, which we did cover a little in class lol but work on your own pace. If your college near you offers a class for beginners, take it if you're able. it will help you view things differently. 4. Copy realistically. Like, I'm talking look at a freaking object in your room and try to draw it. Once you can draw it semi realistically, you can then add your own little stylistic choices to it. Like so many artists who draw chibis or cartoony things, they more than likely know the proper proportions of people and anatomy. But they draw the proportions all whacky and it creates their own style. However it does help to know how they work in reality lol 5. TRACE OVER POSES. Sometimes I do this. I'm not saying to trace someone's art, but if you see some kind of pose on say a google image, or a stock photo, try sketching over it to get a feel for where the joints connect if you're working on anatomy. It reaaaallly helps you memorize where the arm would end, or where the torso connects to the hips. 6. Take advice and criticism well. If someone sees something you don't about your art, they may be on to something. It's not wrong if someone gives you a heads up that a proportion seems lacking or something seems too big or out of place. It will actually help you to see what others see. Sometimes we get in the habit of drawing something a certain way and it's hard to break that habit especially if you've drawn the same thing several hundred times. It will help you in the long run to just accept that you're always going to be improving. You'll never be perfect at drawing, so what do you have to lose? Just keep walking forward and learn what you can. 7. Flip the canvas. This is more or less a digital art tip, but please flip the canvas to make sure the proportions are not off. lol A lot of professionals have to flip the canvas until they get a feel for where things are placed. Another good tip is to use a stabilizer of some kind to draw straight lines. Paint tool sai has one at the very top of the window. It helps tremendously. 8. Draw what you like and don't feel bad for not drawing everything everyone else likes. Don't sacrifice your morals or your personal desires for something everyone else likes. If you're paid to draw something you don't like, thats another thing. but don't let people pressure you to draw stuff that you don't want to. You'll be much happier, and build an audience that is much like-minded to you. Be considerate of what your audience likes, sure, but remember at the end of the day, art is something to express one's self. Art is not and should not be a job. Even if you get paid money to draw or design things, it's important to take a break and draw something for yourself every once in a while. Be self indulgent, and treat yo self from time to time :) And uhhh...that's all I can think of for the time being. :') let me know if you have any further questions or if I need to clarify anything :) Thanks again!

[sephinova]

Tagged by @naliquinra Thank you! ^^ I’m so sorry it took me so long to do this, I’ve been too distracted writing fanfiction.

what’s your favorite song(s) to sing/hum? I love to sing/hum Final Fantasy OSTs, especially FFVII’s. There are many other video game OSTs that I love to sing/hum as well, such as Xenogears’s main theme song ‘Small Two of Pieces’ (I know, strange name XD), I absolutely adore that song. And some good ol’ Evanescence and anime opening/ending songs!

what are your favorite flower/tree/plant (all 3 or whatever you have an answer to) Roses, Cherry Blossoms and Lilies.

favorite colour(s)? Purple, teal, turquoise, blue, red, pink, emerald green and black.

what do you always doodle (if you ever do)? I mostly doodle anime styled eyes.

how do you take your coffee/tea? If you don’t like those what’s your fav warm drink?  I have milk and two teaspoons of sugar in my tea. If I have green tea I only add water to it.

favorite candle scent? I never use scented candles as I have a bit of an irrational fear when candles are lit, I always worry that something’s going to catch fire. I would love to use scented candles if I wasn’t so fearful and I’ve always wanted to buy a Sephiroth scented candle that Square Enix made a few years ago. lol

sunrise or sunset? Nowadays I’m never awake to see sunrises. But If I had to pick it would have to be sunsets, because when the sun sets on a mostly clear day where I live the colours are so beautiful!

what perfume do you wear if any? The perfumes I wear are what I get for birthdays and Christmas, other than that I never buy perfumes for myself (I buy body sprays instead). But recently I’ve been wearing ‘Impulse True Love’ perfume.

what’s your go to dance move when you’re alone? I don’t dance because of reasons.

favorite quote? Most of my favorite quotes are from Final Fantasy characters, here’s one from Oerba Dia Vanille from Final Fantasy XIII that I love: ‘‘Wishes can come true. But not if you just wait for miracles. Miracles are things we make for ourselves. Here, and now.’‘ Here’s another from Dirge of Cerberus Final Fantasy VII, a Vincent Valentine quote: ‘’When a person has someone they care about that much, giving their life is sometimes the least they can do. And maybe that's what makes us human.’’ And lastly from Lucrecia Crescent: ‘’  Things fade with time, as do many things in this world. But, there are some things that we cannot let disappear.’’ I have MANY more quotes that I love, but my brain refuses to think of more at the moment.

favourite self care thing(s) or routine(s)? Taking a shower, getting a good night’s rest, eating fruits and vegetables, drinking water and indulging in my hobbies.

fuzzy socks or house slippers? I love both, but I would have to choose slippers because I don’t like walking around without wearing some sort of shoes most of the time.

what colour are your eyes? Dark brown.

what’s your favourite eye colour on others? I’d have to say blue, so pretty!

favourite season? why? Spring because of the beautiful flowers and baby animals and Autumn because the leaves change colour.

cheek, neck or nose kisses? Is this question referring to kisses by someone that I’d be in a romantic/sexual relationship with? If so, I can’t say as I’ve never been in a romantic/sexual relationship.

what does your happy place look like? A meadow or where you can see countless beautiful stars on a clear night sky.

favourite breed of dog? Whippets, Huskies, Great Danes and Labradors.

do you ever want to be married? If so what colours would you pick for your wedding theme? Honestly, I don’t care about getting married. When it comes to reality I have a cynical view on marriage based on how so many end in divorce, I have other reasons as well but I don’t feel like typing it all out. But if I were to meet the right person then maybe. I guess the colours I’d pick would possibly be light purples, blues or pinks.

silk or lace? Both.

favourite weather? Sunny days that are not hot. I also love it when it snows and settles on the ground for days.

tagging @idariddle, @demon-prince , @cradle-you-in-love, @rubybahamut and @dreaming-of-pixels  You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. :)

[aquaticsapphic]

feel free to skip any, but all the oc asks for either Xanthe or Mies? (Or both but I don't wanna give u..... A shitton if u don't want it)

I’m gonna do these in 2 parts!First up is Xanthe :)

What does their bedroom look like?

I don’t have a solid bedroom really, I’m on the move too much. Even if I stay in a room for a while, I don’t typically keep much of my things in there.

(ooc: If she were to suddenly drop travelling in stay in a room, I imagine it would still be pretty bare, but probably small and comfy. Probably a desk for writing and a trash bin with letters.)

Do they have any daily rituals?

Every night before I go to sleep I have a quick check-in with Lulu so she can see how I’m doing or offer advice. It’s nice to have someone to listen and help me feel like I’m not completely alone in the world, you know?

Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often?

I primarily walk from place to place, especially when travelling from one city to another. I used to be very hard-set with exercises, but now I just use whatever I need for day-to-day activities.

What would they do if they needed to make dinner but the kitchen was busy?

I’d hang around for a while if it looked like they were almost done, but otherwise I’d just leave and come back later, so I wouldn’t bother them.

Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)

In the cities and towns I stay in, I try to bathe every day, but as I sometimes spend weeks getting from place to place, the ideal hygiene isn’t always possible. As for the things I own, I’m not too concerned with keeping them in order in my bag, as I know they’ll just get jumbled up on the journey anyway.

Eating habits and sample daily menu

When I’m in town I try to get a bunch of rations and non-perishables like bread, dried fruits, cheese, and jerky. I also try to collect food as I go through the plains though, so any edible plants and animals I can find there will add a bit of variety to what I eat.

Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time

I like seeing how different people in different towns and cities interact with each other. Everybody has such interesting lives and stories to tell, and it’s exciting to be able to view these chapters for a while. It’s a nice pastime when I can focus on it, but if something else is weighing on me, it just heightens my nervousness.

Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging

I don’t typically indulge in things very often, but I guess as far as guilty pleasures go, I try to avoid becoming too involved with situations because whenever I do, things seem to go wrong, but…. It’s hard to keep that promise to myself sometimes.

Makeup?

I alternate between wearing none and wearing just enough to make me unrecognizable.

Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such?

(ooc: Xanthe is… very bad at recognizing that these are problems and admitting that, but: Avoidance, low sense of self-worth, repeated negative thoughts. She started working on trying to be better at managing them, but I’m not sure if she understands the neurological components of it.)

Intellectual pursuits?

I like listening to all of Bufo’s past journeys and everything he’s learned throughout the years. He’s actually really cool.

Favorite book genre?

Fantasy. What can I say, I like talking animals.

Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general?

Lesbian. Your sexuality is your own, and no one can decide that for you.

Physical abnormalities? (Both visible and not, including injuries/disabilities, long-term illnesses, food-intolerances, etc.)

I have a few light scars on my arms, a circular scar on my chest/shoulder area from getting shot with a bow once, and it seems like I’ll always have a bunch of small bruises. I bruise really easily.

Biggest and smallest short term goal?

Well I definitely want to get off of this island, but I’m not sure how long that will take.  So for now… talk to Fela. Explore the island.

Biggest and smallest long term goal?

Lulu says going back will help me. I hope it will. I also want to see a will-o’-wisp.

Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress

Someone said I looked good in light purple, so I’ve been trying to add that color into my outfits. I really like loose-fitting clothes, because they’re so nice and airy. But I can’t wear skirts or dresses. They just get in the way and make it hard to move.

Favorite beverage?

I honestly just like water.

What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

If there’s not a lot that happened during the day, my thoughts will ultimately drift back to all the mistakes I’ve made.

Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them?

“A lady is to be looked at, not listened to. Therefore, if you have to cough, do so daintily, and behind a handkerchief.”

Turn-ons? Turn-offs?

I like open-books. People who know what they want. I can’t stand possessiveness or jealousy.

Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?

I’d probably start doodling Bufo. Or Lulu.

How organized are they? How does this organization/disorganization manifest in their everyday life?

Oh, I’m pretty disorganized. It seems like no matter what I do, I always arrive either too late or too early. Luckily I’ve never had much trouble with misplacing things, even though my backpack is a mess.

Is there one subject of study that they excel at? Or do they even care about intellectual pursuits at all?

I’m interested in learning vague details about academics, but I can’t sit through them or put anything into practice.

How do they see themselves 5 years from today?

Wherever I am, I hope I’m happy. And Bufo is happy. And Lulu is happy. And if it’s not too much to ask, I hope they are still with me.

Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t workout?

Lulu thinks it will help to get in touch with old friends. I hope it goes well, but even then, I’ve been fine without them.

What is their biggest regret?

Caerlowyl

Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy?

Bufo. Definitely Bufo. And….. my mom. All these miles apart and she still haunts me.

Reaction to sudden extrapersonal disaster (eg The house is on fire! What do they do?)

There’s always somewhere else I can go.

Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies)

Whatever it is, it would probably be my fault somehow.

Most prized possession?

My handaxe. It was the first weapon that I ever really learned how to use, so it has some sentimental value. Plus it’s useful for cutting things.

Thoughts on material possessions in general?

Keep what you need, leave everything else.

Concept of home and family?

They’re too stifling. I can’t imagine a life like that.

Thoughts on privacy? (Are they a private person, or are they prone to ‘TMI’?)

The less everyone knows about me, the better everyone will be.

What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time?

I like listening to music, even if there isn’t much to it.

What makes them feel guilty?

Remembering. Open waters.

Are they more analytical or more emotional in their decision-making?

I try to be calm, but it’s not always easy.

Would they consider themselves a Type A or Type B personality?

Neither.

What recharges them when they’re feeling drained?

A good, old-fashioned party.

Would you say that they have a superiority-complex? Inferiority-complex? Neither?

I’ve done many terrible things. I think it’s fair to say most people are better than me in that aspect.

How misanthropic are they?

Not much. People are complex, and the complexity is what makes everyone so interesting.

Hobbies?

I like hiking. And fishing. I don’t keep up with a lot of hobbies.

How far did they get in formal education? What are their views on formal education vs self-education?

Ugh, my mom taught me how to be the Perfect Wife for about half my life and it was a load of bull shit.

Religion?

Gods and I don’t get along.

Superstitions or views on the occult?

I’m generally not a fan.

Do they express their thoughts through words or deeds?

Deeds probably. When I act without thinking is probably when I am the most true.

If they were to fall in love, who (or what) is their ideal?

Someone who accepts me as I am and doesn’t try to change me. I won’t change just to be someone they want me to be. Clearly defined expectations always help.

How do they express love?

Love is staying together until the bitter end.

If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like?

Depends. If the person deserves it, I’m not afraid to fight dirty. At least until they stop fighting me.

Is this person afraid of dying? Why or why not?

I’m not afraid of dying myself. I’d hate to see anybody else die.

[marcusssanderson]

50 Audre Lorde Quotes Celebrating Feminism and Activism

These Audre Lorde quotes will help make all our lives better.

Audre Lorde was an American poet, writer, feminist, librarian, and civil rights activist. Her work was influential to the anti-war, civil rights and women’s movement during the later half of the 20th century

Born on February 18, 1934, in New York City, Lorde developed a love of writing from an early age and was first published in “Seventeen” magazine while in high school.

Lorde’s poetry collections include “From a Land Where Other People Live” (1973) and “The Black Unicorn” (1978). She used her platform as a writer and poet to spread ideas about intersecting oppressions and experiences, especially those faced by women of color.

As an activist, Lorde participated in both the civil rights and feminist movements. She devoted her life to advocating for equality and used her voice and art to fight for what she believed in.

Audre Lorde died on November 17, 1992, on the island of St. Croix, leaving behind a legacy as a great warrior poet whose indefatigable spirit fought on many fronts. In her respect, below is our collection of inspirational, wise, and powerful Audre Lorde quotes, collected from a variety of sources.

Audre Lorde quotes celebrating feminism and activism

1.) “When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.”   – Audre Lorde

2.) “If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.”  – Audre Lorde

3.) “My silences had not protected me. Your silence will not protect you. But for every real word spoken, for every attempt I had ever made to speak those truths for which I am still seeking, I had made contact with other women while we examined the words to fit a world in which we all believed, bridging our differences.”  – Audre Lorde

4.) “It is not our differences that divide us. It is our inability to recognize, accept, and celebrate those differences.”  – Audre Lorde

5.) “Life is very short and what we have to do must be done in the now.” – Audre Lorde

6.) “I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood.”  – Audre Lorde

7.) “I am not free while any woman is unfree, even when her shackles are very different from my own.”  – Audre Lorde

8.) “In our work and in our living, we must recognize that difference is a reason for celebration and growth, rather than a reason for destruction.” – Audre Lorde

9.) “The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. They may allow us to temporarily beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change.”   – Audre Lorde

10.) “The sharing of joy, whether physical, emotional, psychic, or intellectual, forms a bridge between the sharers which can be the basis for understanding much of what is not shared between them, and lessens the threat of their difference.” – Audre Lorde

Audre Lorde quotes on finding your voice

11.) “When we speak we are afraid our words will not be heard or welcomed. But when we are silent, we are still afraid. So it is better to speak.” –  Audre Lorde

12.) “…and that visibility which makes us most vulnerable is that which also is the source of our greatest strength.”  – Audre Lorde

13.) “Nothing I accept about myself can be used against me to diminish me.”  – Audre Lorde

14.) “I learned so much from listening to people. And all I knew was, the only thing I had was honesty and openness.”  – Audre Lorde

15.) “You cannot, you cannot use someone else’s fire. You can only use your own. And in order to do that, you must first be willing to believe that you have it.”  – Audre Lorde

16.) “We have to consciously study how to be tender with each other until it becomes a habit.”  – Audre Lorde

17.) “You do not have to be me in order for us to fight alongside each other. I do not have to be you to recognize that our wars are the same. What we must do is commit ourselves to some future that can include each other and to work toward that future with the particular strengths of our individual identities. And in order for us to do this, we must allow each other our differences at the same time as we recognize our sameness.” –  Audre Lorde

18.) “The quality of light by which we scrutinize our lives has direct bearing upon the product which we live, and upon the changes which we hope to bring about through those lives.”  – Audre Lorde

19.) “Sometimes we drug ourselves with dreams of new ideas The head will save us. The brain alone will set us free. But there are no new ideas waiting in the wings to save us as women, as human. There are only old and forgotten ones, new combinations, extrapolations and recognitions from within ourselves–along with the renewed courage to try them out.”  – Audre Lorde

20.) “I write for those women who do not speak, for those who do not have a voice because they were so terrified, because we are taught to respect fear more than ourselves. We’ve been taught that silence would save us, but it won’t.”   – Audre Lorde

Audre Lorde quotes on courage, strength and perseverance

21.) “When times are hard, do something. If it works, do it some more. If it does not work, do something else. But keep going.”  – Audre Lorde

22.) “And I find I must remember that the pain is not its own reason for being. It is a part of living. And the only kind of pain that is intolerable is pain that is wasteful, pain from which we do not learn. And I think that we must learn to distinguish between the two.”  – Audre Lorde

23.) “And where the words of women are crying to be heard, we must each of us recognize our responsibility to seek those words out, to read them and share them and examine them in their pertinence to our lives.”   – Audre Lorde

24.) “If what we need to dream, to move our spirits most deeply and directly toward and through promise, is discounted as a luxury, then we give up the core — the fountain — of our power, our womanness; we give up the future of our worlds.”  – Audre Lorde

25.) “We must be the change we wish to see in the world.” –  Audre Lorde

26.) “I have come to believe that caring for myself is not self-indulgent. Caring for myself is an act of survival.”  – Audre Lorde

27.) “We can learn to work and speak when we are afraid in the same way we have learned to work and speak when we are tired. For we have been socialized to respect fear more than our own needs for language and definition, and while we wait in silence for that final luxury of fearlessness, the weight of that silence will choke us.”  – Audre Lorde

28.) “When a people share a common oppression, certain kinds of skills and joint defenses are developed. And if you survive you survive because those skills and defenses have worked. When you come into conflict over other existing differences, there is a vulnerability to each other which is desperate and very deep.”  – Audre Lorde

29.) “When we create out of our experiences, as feminists of color, women of color, we have to develop those structures that will present and circulate our culture.”  – Audre Lorde

30.) “One of the hardest things to accept is learning to live within uncertainty and neither deny it nor hide behind it. Most of all, to listen to the messages of uncertainty without allowing them to immobilize me, nor keep me from the certainties of those truths in which I believe. I turn away from any need to justify the future- to live in what has not yet been. Believing, working for what has not yet been while living fully in the present now.”  – Audre Lorde

Audre Lorde quotes on fighting for what you believe in

31.) “The failure of academic feminists to recognize difference as a crucial strength is a failure to reach beyond the first patriarchal lesson. In our world, divide and conquer must become define and empower.”   – Audre Lorde

32.) “For Black women as well as Black men, it is axiomatic that if we do not define ourselves for ourselves, we will be defined by others — for their use and to our detriment.”  – Audre Lorde

33.) “The fact that we are here and that I speak these words is an attempt to break that silence and bridge some of those differences between us, for it is not difference which immobilizes us, but silence. And there are so many silences to be broken.”  – Audre Lorde

34.) “Pain is important: how we evade it, how we succumb to it, how we deal with it, how we transcend it.”  – Audre Lorde

35.) “Our feelings are our most genuine paths to knowledge.” – Audre Lorde

36.) “I am my best work – a series of road maps, reports, recipes, doodles, and prayers from the front lines.” –  Audre Lorde

37.) “Sometimes we are blessed with being able to choose the time, and the arena, and the manner of our revolution, but more usually we must do battle where we are standing.” – Audre Lorde

38.) “We must recognize and nurture the creative parts of each other without always understanding what will be created.” –  Audre Lorde

39.) “You become strong by doing the things you need to be strong for. This is the way genuine learning takes place. That’s a very difficult way to live, but it also has served me. It’s been an asset as well as a liability.”  – Audre Lorde

40.) “We recognize that all knowledge is mediated through the body and that feeling is a profound source of information about our lives.” –  Audre Lorde

Audre Lorde quotes to help you find inspiration throughout your battles

41.) “Learning not to crumple before these uncertainties fuels my resolve to print myself upon the texture of each day fully rather than forever.” – Audre Lorde

42.) “The more I use my strength in the service of my vision the less I am afraid.” –  Audre Lorde

43.) “We must constantly encourage ourselves and each other to attempt the heretical actions that our dreams imply and so many of our old ideas disparage.” –  Audre Lorde

44.) “Out of my flesh that hungers and my mouth that knows comes the shape I am seeking for reason.” –  Audre Lorde

45.) “Our visions begin with our desires.”  – Audre Lorde

46.) “In the forefront of our move toward change, there is only poetry to hint at possibility made real.”  – Audre Lorde

47.) “As we learn to bear the intimacy of scrutiny, and to flourish within it, as we learn to use the products of that scrutiny for power within our living, those fears which rule our lives and form our silences begin to lose their control over us.”  – Audre Lorde

48.) “I have a duty to speak the truth as I see it and share not just my triumphs, not just the things that felt good, but the pain, the intense, often unmitigated pain. It is important to share how I know survival is survival and not just a walk through the rain.”  – Audre Lorde

49.) “Difference must be not merely tolerated, but seen as a fund of necessary polarities between which our creativity can spark like a dialectic.”  – Audre Lorde

50.) “To acknowledge privilege is the first step in making it available for wider use. Each of us is blessed in some particular way, whether we recognize our blessings or not. And each one of us, somewhere in our lives, must clear a space within that blessing where she can call upon whatever resources are available to her in the name of something that must be done.”  – Audre Lorde

Which of these Audre Lorde quotes was your favorite?

Audre Lorde’s work gave voice to issues of race, gender and sexuality. Although she is long gone, her work continues to shape contemporary feminist and womanist thought.

There are many reasons to love Audre Lorde and keep her legacy alive. Despite not having an easy childhood, she accomplished much in her life. Hopefully, the above quotes will give you the courage to fight for your dreams.

Which of these Audre Lorde quotes resonated with you best? Do you have any other inspirational quotes to add? Tell us in the comment section below.

The post 50 Audre Lorde Quotes Celebrating Feminism and Activism appeared first on Everyday Power.

[soclosewiz]

Proper Nowhere

El Salto was the place where everything changed for me on my first trip south of the American border. One year ago I traveled here expecting the unexpected, but I never could have guessed how much it would change my life. Before that trip, I had been living my life in a very predictable way: work during the week, climb during the weekends, and plan semi-annual trips with a few close friends. After a particularly successful vacation to the Red River Gorge in November of 2016, I came back to Seattle knowing I needed to get away again as soon as possible. Somehow that led to me planning a trip to Mexico with two people I barely knew that December.  

That trip changed me forever. Even a year later it’s no exaggeration to say I fell in love. Every day, in every moment, I was consciously aware that I had somehow unlocked a level of happiness I had never felt before. It lit a fire inside me for not just climbing itself, but travelling, meeting new people, experiencing new things, and all that the dirtbag lifestyle encompasses. I could feel that my life was about to change, as long as I was willing to let it; something that doesn’t come easy to me, yet I felt like I’d subconsciously been waiting for it for a long time. I eased into it over some long and influential spring travels until I was ready to fully move into my car and let the road lead wherever it did at the end of summer.

Deciding where to go on my travels came easy for a while, until suddenly it wasn’t. Cold weather and the winter holidays loomed on the horizon, and I was faced with a decision: to return to Mexico, or to attempt to find psyche in places where I either had no partners, or no desire to climb in the States. All along I knew there was only one answer, but I felt a strange reluctance to return to the place where it all started. I was afraid of what I would find upon returning to a place that had changed my life in such a big way—what if it wasn’t the same? What if it was? Christmas came and went and I still couldn’t commit to going farther south than Arizona, until finally one day I learned all my partners had cleaned out the gear we had stashed at the crag and were leaving within 48 hours to a place I knew I didn’t belong. It was time to face the music.

On December 26th as I walked out the door of the Chipotle in Sedona to knock a few hours off the drive, I got a message from a friend overseas asking if I would be in El Paso the next day and if I could help out his stranded friend. I had my doubts about picking up a hitchhiker, especially when I learned it was actually two of them plus a dog. Nonetheless I discarded my inhibitions and allowed the pair to curl up on my bed as I ferried them across the entire state of Texas. I got them through two border patrol checkpoints and a whole lot of what we called “Proper Nowhere” until we parted ways in Laredo. I thought it fitting, that my return to Mexico would start with an experience so far outside my usual status quo. I took it as a good omen of things to come, because Mexico was always about learning how much better life can be outside my comfort zone.  

Waiting for me in Mexico was a diverse blend of the usual suspects from last year, plus many of the people with whom I’d been climbing over the last few months. Both groups were people who had gone from complete strangers to like family in just the few weeks I’d known them. I guess that’s what happens when you spend almost all of your time with people, camping, eating, climbing, relaxing, even working—friendships get fast tracked. I had come to El Salto for two main reasons: to party with these friends, and to try and send a specific route: El Infierno de Dante.

I had tried the route before and walked away uninspired: long runouts at the cruxes make it hard to work the moves when you are just beginning the process and the route is at your (my) limit, plus something about it just didn’t light that fire in me to make me want to really sink my teeth in. At the same time it’s hard for me to ever really let a route go, and it had been sitting in the back of my mind for the last twelve months as reminder of a time that I had given up. Unlike other climbs of the upper 5.13/lower 5.14 range I’d done, this one I knew was within my ability if I embraced the projecting process and approached it with commitment and patience.

I find in my climbing that I go back and forth between two different phases—mainly what I consider to be project mode and vacation mode. In vacation mode I am out climbing purely for the love of the sport and all it entails. Failure or success, at the end of the day I’m still having a big dinner with my friends, drinking beer, and focusing on enjoying every moment of this beautiful life. In project mode I am an athlete, disciplined and focused, willingly sacrificing all indulgences in pursuit of whatever climb has become my latest obsession. The tricky thing about these two modes is that they both make me feel really good in very different ways, and I often wonder if I’m focusing on the right thing. When I’m relaxing, I miss feeling strong and in shape, having big successes in my climbing and feeling confident about myself. When I’m dedicated and honed in on an objective, I wonder if my sacrifices are worth missing the fun nights of drinking, staying up late, and eating excessive amounts of chocolate.

Perhaps the fiddliest part of the split-climbing-personality conundrum is that I can’t just choose to flip the switch between the two modes on a whim. Vacation mode is easy, but entering project mode requires a goal, and it has to be one that really inspires me. There’s a certain feeling I’ve found about my proudest sends during the process that made me really truly care, and it doesn’t come around all that often. I may decide to work a certain route, but at the end of the day if I don’t want it bad enough that I fall asleep thinking about it, doodle its name in the margins of a notebook, and feel my face light up whenever someone asks how it’s going, the relationship is doomed to fail.

The last spark I’d chased before Mexico was Rude Boys (which was perhaps a bit forced), and before that City Park. I’d done a few low 5.13s here and there, but nothing had really struck me on that level in many months. I did want to go out there and see just what I was made of, test my limits and try and be my best self as a climber, but I had to wait for the calling. Finally it came, and I was ready and eager to answer when it did. Day two in Mexico I quested up Dante’s Inferno and felt the stirrings of that feeling I had been so long without. I was inspired.

Dante’s Inferno is perhaps the most well-known hard climb in El Salto, which adds a certain aura of history that always draws me to a climb. It consists of 40 meters of resistance climbing, passing through two very sustained cruxes to the mid-way anchor, and then one last sting in the tail a few bolts from the top. The moves are hard, not getting too pumped is even harder, but simply keeping your mind engaged for that much climbing is perhaps the hardest part.

After a week or so of effort I slowly built up enough endurance to know I had a shot, yet I battled with bad skin that didn’t seem to recover on my rest days. After a long mid-day nap one day, I tied in with fingertips so raw it hurt to take my jacket off for one last fitness burn (aka an attempt with low hopes of success but done anyway for the training benefit). My friend Tanager had just told me that all of her best sends had been after a nap, and another friend who had just sent the route said he had done it with terrible skin as well, so I decided to go ‘a muerte’ even though it was my fifth attempt in two days and I was exhausted.

Screaming on every move, I managed to battle to the first anchors for the first time and partway to the second. By the time that I fell, I was so exhausted that I couldn’t even get through the final crux to work out beta for any redpoint attempts on the extension. It was success nevertheless, resulting in much celebration after a local adventure movie led to a wild dance party lasting late into the night.

One extremely hungover rest day and a mini break climbing on other routes later, I knew it was time to go back for the extension. The weather had gotten hot, and many people were losing psyche for Las Animas, the wall on which Dante’s is located. I had a few partners still interested, but as the morning stretched on they remained at camp, going about their day in leisurely style while I paced around in agitation. I watched minutes tick by as calculations ran through my mind—if we leave right now, there will still be time to warm up and have an attempt before the wall goes into the sun.

When it became clear that things were not happening, I left for the crag by myself, hoping to beg a belay off someone already there. Up until then it had been so crowded that you could barely weasel your way in line for a warmup, but suddenly there was no one at the wall when I arrived. I sat around for a while before deciding I was wasting my time, letting toxic thoughts flood my brain as I began hiking out in defeat.

Just then, two friends rounded the corner and called out a greeting and that they were there to belay and support. Having stopped by our camp that morning and heard of my tragic plight, they were happy to help. The sun was already creeping across the wall towards Dante’s, so I decided to forego a warmup and just go for it. I needed to work out that upper crux, so it wasn’t a send go anyway. It wasn’t a send go, except the higher I got the more it felt like maybe it could be. The rock was cool but not cold, I was fresh but not shaky, and moves that had felt desperate felt completely controlled. Before I knew it, I was staring down the upper crux with no choice but to wing it—no real beta, but I wasn’t that pumped and the sun still hadn’t made the route too hot to climb.

I pulled into the final hard moves of the boulder problem, toeing down on glassy pebbles so carefully that I knew I’d never let a fall happen because of slipping. Suddenly it was all over and I called out to my friends in excitement that “It’s going down right now!” even though I still had a few bolts of easy climbing to the top. I knew wouldn’t fall there.

Afterwards as I traded my climbing shoes for a belay device to support another no-warmup send by a friend, I couldn’t help but stare at Dante’s and feel a strange sense of melancholy. I felt like I had only just started to get to know the climb and it was already over. I was beyond proud of how quickly I’d done it; five or six days of work to clip the chains on my second 5.14 is pretty exciting, but I wasn’t ready to let go of that powerful inspiration I had finally managed to track down. I had been mentally prepared for a brutal battle, in which I fell at the upper crux dozens of times, went home in tears day after day, and questioned the meaning of life as I fought highs and lows of self-doubt. You know, the usual projecting M.O.

Ever since last year, a part of me knew that Dante’s was one of those routes that I just had to come back for. Who can say why, but there are certain climbs that sit at the back of my mind, waiting for the day when I’m ready to lay it all on the line and go to war. Luckily I still have a few weeks here to see if the next inspiration lies somewhere between these limestone tufas and calcified stalactites, and if not, to simply bask in the warm Mexican sun eating Elotes and being grateful to not be freezing in the Seattle winter rain. I had my doubts about returning to Mexico, but in the end and as always, the Wash provides.