#more negative thought spirals

[md3artjournal]

I don't know what it is that makes me feel such internal resistance to studying illustration fundamentals. But I feel it deep in my gut, each and every time.

. I know I have to study the fundamentals. But I'm SO bad at it. Not just the results. But every time I force myself to do it, I become so intensely irate, I'm grouchy towards everyone around me. It doesn't matter if they're my favorite people and I don't get to see them often. If I'm studying illustration fundamentals, I am a complete asshole to be around. I just start attacking anything around me. It's horrible.

. I began to think that maybe I just don't like drawing. I thought maybe I enjoyed having completed an illustration, more than the process of drawing. Which sucked, because there are so many mediums of art where I LOVE the process, even the hard parts. I can pull multiple all-nighters, ignoring proper nourishment for days, and enjoy completely focusing on writing. I feel the same about crafting, carving, sculpting, blockprinting, and so many other mediums. But drawing…it was just frustration. I really started to believe maybe I didn't actually like drawing. I told my sister that I didn't like drawing; just having drawn.

. But then I stopped drawing for a while. And eventually, I got this itch in my hands. Something that even just moving vector shapes around in digital art programs couldn't scratch. I was completing 2D visual art, and yet it didn't feel the same. I was missing drawing. I knew it, when I gradually returned to drawing, and just the simple friction of pen against paper finally made my hands feel better. That itch was finally scratched. Ever since I told my sister that I didn't like drawing, but instead only enjoyed having drawn, I kept paying attention to how I felt when I drew and when I didn't. And it became clear that whenever I didn't draw, I felt terrible. I needed to draw every day. Even if it was just doodling.

. But why couldn't I just hunker down and study drawing fundamentals? Why did it make me feel so intensely irritated??? I remembered a stand up comedian who equated the jitteriness of the withdrawal from quitting smoking, with the irritation at trying to floss one's teeth daily. That's what I felt about studying drawing fundamentals: I was jittery. I was irate and jittery.

. In the end, I feel like I never learned illustration fundamentals, and maybe I never will. So instead, I doodle. And honestly, the times when I finish drawings and draw everyday, even though my skill level is at "doodling", whenever I keep it up, I end up more confident about drawing and able to draw more. When I doodled daily, even if I demonstrated no concept of perspective, volume, anatomy, etc., as long as I was expressing myself daily and completing drawings daily, I felt better about myself. I wasn't so afraid to pick up a pen, whenever I had a concept. I wasn't so afraid of completing a concept that I wouldn't start. I completed comics and improved my skill---first, by improving my speed at doodles that used to take me forever. Then, by being less afraid to tackle things that challenged me. I could see and feel that I was improving. …Yet, it was clear that compared to anyone else online, I didn't know how to draw and all my drawings were trash---to everyone except me. I could objectively call my drawings---even the ones I was proud of, that expanded my skill levels---objectively bad. Objectively terrible. But I'm sentimental, so they were precious to me. But no matter how proud I am of myself for improving past the me from yesterday, it wasn't professionally competitive. And art is the only job I can try for.

. I have an actual 4-year degree in art, and yet I feel like saying "I didn't learn anything", because I still feel like I can't draw. Whenever I get jittery and irate at the idea of studying fundamentals, the belligerent part of my mind wants to blame my art school for not actually teaching me how to draw. For just plopping me in front of models for 3 hours, half the week, and telling me to draw, without being specific. But in reality, I do feel like I learned a lot from my art degree. Without it, I never would have learned to think outside of my imagined restrictions. I wouldn't have learned how to think critically and for myself, to become a person more than what authority figures in my life told me to. And I did pick up a few things about how to draw, even if I don't feel equipped to draw without a model or to draw concepts I've imagined.

. Maybe I can't draw commissions, can't viably compete in artist alley, and am too cornered by my social anxiety to get any other career outside of art. But I think I have to stay here. It'd be one thing, if I had all the common sense and social skills of a normal person, who could fall back on any service job. But I don't have all those normal people skills. Even more fundamentals that I don't have. That's why it's so important that I gain drawing fundamentals, so I can be competitive as an illustration artist. I would prefer to do more 3-dimensional art, since I enjoy doing that more. But 2D art is where the outsourcing is set up to make being an artist easier. 2D artists can take commissions online and could even sell non-physical art during the pandemic. 2D artists can send a file to a printer and instantly get 20 copies of each artwork, restocked, before a convention, within 1-2 weeks. That scenario was a nightmare, as a sculptor, each and every time. Not to mention that 2D artists can restock without the physical pain of recreating each piece from scratch. I dunno… Either I need to get better at 2D art or find a way to make 3D art work towards making money, without destroying my back/neck. But every time I even think about studying fundamentals, I just don't have faith that I could improve my drawing skills.

[elftwink]

have to work on a project today and an unrelated thing happened that just made me so so so so so mad (just some irl personal stuff), which normally derails my entire day because i find it so hard to come out of the angry/upset state and tend to just circle back and obsess over whatever triggered it but! today after 20 minutes of that i had a council meeting about it (<- what i call my decision making process) the outcome of which was putting it aside (!!!) for later when i could actually talk about it and resolve it (!!!) & in the meantime we could just do other stuff.

local man exuberant and jubilated to achieve feats of basic emotional self-regulation and was seen excitedly telling reporters he "never thought this day would come" and began giving a thank you speech to nobody in particular. more on this story as it develops

[serendark]

.

[mantisgodsdomain]

Our apologies if we're... inconsistent in the next little bit. If you'll allow us to be briefly negative, the 3DS/WiiU online services shutdown is... hitting us, with the abrupt GRIEF of something that was loved and cherished and cared for being abruptly... shut down, just like that. Features taken out forever. Parts of games that could have been loved for years to come simply being... gone. An axe that, unlike with older games, CAN'T simply be recovered from, except with infrastructure. Communication between games lost forever. A whole link in things gone, with a lifespan of barely more than twelve years.

It's...

We enjoy the Pokemon games. If we were to start a trade between two GBA Emerald cartridges nowadays, provided we tracked down the hardware, it could still be done. Nothing is lost of communication features. Platinum is a full game without the wifi features, albeit missing a few trade evolutions, and if you have a wifi router with antiquated enough settings, you can still transfer your pokemon forward to Gen 5. Black and White lose few features and can be played in full without hurting too much. With the 3ds...

Pokemon Bank being shut down means no more transfers to future games. A guillotine to transferring beloved Pokemon forward, with no real remedy. ORAS's secret bases rely on passively collecting data from other participants to function. Hacking 3DS games is already difficult, and we doubt that reverse engineering parts of infrastructure that are simply gone will be easy. Maybe it's just other things fucking with us, and we're definitely being a bit dramatic, but... the eShop shutdown already cut off massive amounts of previously playable games. Who will archive online features? Who will archive the things that require connective infrastructure? As things grow more complicated, they grow more difficult to repair. How long before it becomes impossible to replace that which once was?

Twelve years feels like a horribly short lifespan for any technology, and things keep trending worse - making things faster and faster and more and more rushed as the structures they're built on require more and more work. This isn't sustainable. This can't keep going. This market is running faster than we can handle, and it feels like it's only getting faster. Modern things keep being discarded the moment they aren't shiny and new, keep leaning more and more on communication and intercommunication and infrastructure that will rot the moment it isn't actively attended to. How much worse will it be for future things?

There is a game on our computer, fully installed. No online features at all. Yet, it cannot be played. It was made with AOV to prevent piracy, and the servers it was meant to connect to no longer exist.

We don't want more games to be made the same way. But we don't think that this road branches anywhere but an awful demise, approaching faster and faster by the day.

[mitamicah]

Everything seemed great until the dread attacked

[arolesbianism]

Sometimes you have to look at a pair of characters who barely interact and go but what if they did interact. And then you have to make a whole au abt it where you bend every time rule possible to make it happen. Ralsei and Noelle can be doomed toxic yuri if you believe hard enough

[dewgongs]

"im not going to call you by your pronouns or your name im going to pick a name for you" alongside the venus symbol ... god radfems are so psychotic irs not even funny like be forreal for a second . did you ever have a time in ur life where youve ever literally ever had to do something you dont want to do. or are you just one of those people who cant stop throwing temper tantrums and flinging shit around whenever something doesnt go your way... ??? imagine this kind of behavior in real life like the sort of antisocial traits a lot of terfs exhibit is just sososo insane to me and they never take a time to reflect on it and reflect on how and why theyve come to hate such a small subject of the population... its actually mental illness like idk what else or how else to say like i just think these people arent all there. even thinking in terms of like... okay. imagine theres no trans person there (usually there isnt, a lot of these people hallucinate and get to the final stage of transphobia which is transvestigations) and youre just yelling and saying this in a towns square or something. please tell me if you really genuinely think people would think youre normal in any way. like step back for a second and stop thinking about trans people for once, imagine how this looks towards someone completely uninitiated. like come on bro please snap out of this radical fundamentalist haze you are in you have to snap out of it you have to. please snap out of it. WAKE UPPP

[floatingmoonlightcity]

you have a personality disorder. one that specifically affects the way you think and react. one that specifically makes you hypersensitive to otherwise insignificant things. You do remember that right. You do remember that you will exhibit symptoms of said disorder and that you can't magically make them disappear just to be a "better friend", right. right?

[painsandconfusion]

Writers, here’s your reminder that you should be doing warm-ups!

Athletes need to warm up. Musicians need to warm up. Artists need to warm up. Heck, I even have to play a few matches in video games before I get into a groove every day.

Warm-ups help you get into the right headspace, give you more control of your actions and word choice, get you comfortable in your physical setting (eg: with your keyboard, notebook, tablet, or whatever you're writing with), and spark creativity.

Even if you don’t think you have spoons to write, sit down and do a couple warm-ups. If you still don’t want to, that’s alright. But. I think you’ll be surprised how often they help break that ice.

5-15 minutes is all you need. I personally set a timer for ten minutes each time and do not stop writing until the time is up. Your warm-up can be anything at all so long as it gets you writing and starts nudging those creative juices.

Here's some common warm-ups:

Journaling. Just jot down some notes about your day. Feel free to really lean into something that you noticed. We're going for description and details -- try to avoid settling into a spiral or focusing on something negative that will upset your creativity.

Short story prompts. Type that into Pinterest and pick the most ridiculous, cliche thing you can. Write a little scene, story summary, or even a rant about why you do or don't like the prompt. Just write.

Vocab challenge. If you like a bit more critical thinking to get you in the zone, have a random vocabulary word generator spit out five or so words. Check their meanings and jot down a little story or thought that includes all five. You get more familiar with beautiful and descriptive language, and it gives you a much narrowed prompt (which is lovely if you're like me and suffer each time there's an open-ended task assigned).

Character moments. Try putting your character into a generic setting and write down almost meticulously what their thought process would be. Follow them realizing they've just stepped in mud or dreading the start of the day. Pick a mundane thing and describe them working through it. This will not only get your writing going, but it will wake up the character's voice in your head.

Ongoing storytelling. Did you know that Whinnie the Poo was A.A. Milne's warm up story? He would jot down a quick little story with those very basic characters and did so every day. Whatever came to mind. He kept writing little tidbits on the same characters and eventually it turned into a series. Having that ongoing plot with isolated scenes and simple characters can help you feel more motivated to sit down and write.

Get-to-know-you-questions. Google a list of basic first-date questions (there are a million out there) and answer one yourself. Go into specifics. Where do you most want to travel and why? Let yourself ramble until the question is fully answered.

Writer's block blues. This is a favorite of mine. If you're truly stuck, write about being stuck. Eg: 'I'm supposed to write for ten minutse, but that feels so stupid and impossible. No one is goign to read this anyway. I have no ideas and the page is so overwhelming when its blank. I used to be able to write on and on and nothing could stop me. it was like breathing. but now I have nothign and do nothing and I can't even do a stupid prompt-' Even the rambling and ranting got me writing. It made things easier. It made writing this post easier. Also -- notice the typos? Yeah, don't fix those. You're in writing mode, not editing mode when you're doing this. If you edit while you write, you're forcing yourself to stay in your executive and calculating headspace rather than falling fully into creativity and dream. Ignore the mistakes. That's for future you to handle.

I've officially rambled far too much, but I hope that helps even a little bit. Live well and write often, my friends. Best of luck to you <3

[peapod20001]

Bro did I just stay awake all fucking night

[mooningningg]

notes, im rlly picky with the requests but honestly thank you guys! but this one was @sadrna such a fun scenario!

★ Roommate!Sukuna experiences a pregnancy scare.

You didn’t knock. You never did.

That alone should’ve been Sukuna’s first red flag.

The second red flag? You walked into his room holding your phone like it had personally threatened your entire bloodline. Hair a mess, hoodie too big — his hoodie, actually — and a look on your face that screamed do not fuck with me.

“Hey,” you said, voice weirdly even. “I’m late.”

Sukuna, lying half-naked on his bed in sweats, barely glanced up from his phone. “Yeah, no shit. I’ve been waiting on the sushi you promised—”

“Not late like that,” you snapped.

He finally looked at you. Really looked. And blinked.

“Oh,” he said.

Oh.

The word dropped like a boulder in the middle of the room.

You stared at each other. One heartbeat. Two. Then he sat up slowly, phone forgotten on the mattress, and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“You’re serious?”

“I’m not playing, Sukuna.” You crossed your arms, pacing like a caged animal. “I’ve been, like—craving weird things, and I’ve been nauseous for three days—”

“You’re always nauseous. You eat gas station ramen like it’s gourmet.”

“And I want mochi. Like every day. Don’t you think that’s weird?!”

He gave you a look.

“You crave mochi every other week.”

“Yeah, but I want it more now. Like emotionally.”

He looked like he was buffering. “How the fuck do you emotionally crave—”

“I’m telling you I might be pregnant and you’re grilling me about snack cravings?!”

Sukuna stood. Not dramatically — just slow, like he wasn’t quite sure how to stand anymore. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

“I mean—fuck. Are you sure?”

“I don’t know! That’s why I’m here!”

There was a long pause. Then Sukuna did something you didn’t expect.

He nodded. Just once. Then he scratched the back of his neck, exhaled hard, and said, “Alright. We’ll get a test.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Test,” he said again. “I’ll drive. The CVS near 4th still opens late, yeah? You don’t have to go alone.”

That was all. No shouting. No blaming. Just a slightly pink flush in his ears and a suddenly gentle tone.

“…You’re not freaking out?” you asked, arms still folded like a shield.

He rolled his eyes. “Why the fuck would I freak out?”

“Because you don’t even believe in using a hamper, Sukuna.”

He gave a short laugh, heading to grab a hoodie and his wallet. “Yeah, well. Hampers are for weak men. Babies are different.”

That shouldn’t have made you smile. But it did.

As he shoved his feet into his sneakers, he glanced at you again.

“You okay?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Not really.”

“Well, shit,” he muttered, brushing past you and pulling you by the wrist so you’d follow. “Then hurry up. Let’s get answers before you spiral into full psychosis.”

You glared. “You’re such a dick.”

He smirked. “You still let me hit raw though.”

“You’re literally the reason I might have a gremlin growing inside me.”

“I am the gremlin,” he corrected.

Later, after CVS. After awkward jokes in the aisle. After a tense drive and three whole minutes of pacing in the bathroom while he waited outside the door.

You stepped out slowly, holding the plastic stick like it was a grenade.

He looked up at you. “Well?”

“…Negative.”

Sukuna leaned against the wall, exhaled, and let his head thunk back. “Jesus.”

You stared at the test. Then him. Then the floor. “You’re disappointed.”

He scoffed. “What the fuck? No, I’m—just. Processing.”

“You are disappointed.”

“I’m not!”

“…You thought the baby would look like you.”

“Shut up.”

You cracked a smile.

And for a beat, in the thick silence between too many almosts and too much tension, he said, “You sure you're okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Then you turned to walk back to your room.

“Hey,” he said, just before you closed the door.

You looked over your shoulder. “Yeah?”

“…You still want mochi?”

You paused. “Actually… yeah.”

He shoved his keys in his pocket. “C’mon, then. My treat. For, y’know—surviving your meltdown.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips curved upward anyway.

And as you walked out together — bickering, exhausted, weirdly… closer — Sukuna muttered under his breath,

“Emotionally craving mochi. What the fuck.”

You didn’t let it go the whole ride there.

notes, nooo cause let me tell you this is one of the scariest things i've experienced in my liiifeee.

Taglist, @humeysaga @williamafton26 @aranisbaee @probablynotleahhhh @probablynotleahhhh. @beaniesayshi @levifiance @rinofcike @fushiguroooozzz @gojoscumslut @bellsoftheball @kunascutie. @after-laughter-come-tears. @minasuniverse, @chewiebee @ilovebeansya @drowsysausagedog, @shroomysstuff, @angel4-miba @paperalphys. @eyeless-kun @etsuniiru @inzayneforaj @domainexpansionmypants @bloodb3nders @toesucker59, @qsidrea @spidergirlnr1

[chatonmagique]

I wish I could find more belonging and comfort in my own face when I see it reflected back at me. I wish I could smile at myself and think

"yea she's kind of fun, she is soft and radiating a genuine warmth"

"She's me but also my friend and she deserves to be taken care of"

"I see confidence and it makes her shine brighter"

I know it's what people who care more about me then I do would want. It's what I want.

[snail-day]

Rahhh I feel like a broken record saying this, but I just, ugh. Satoru is just such a yearner. Masks himself with smiles, pretending there’s nothing behind those pretty eyes. But really, he craves love. Craves it so deeply that the very act of being loved repulses him. It’s too much. He simply doesn't know what to do with it.

I just think Satoru in love is a mess, not in the way people expect. He’s not stammering over his words, not showing up at your door with hundreds of roses. He doesn’t have time for grand gestures like that.

He’s the type to stare at his phone longer than he should, the screen time stacking up in seconds. Just scrolling through your Instagram, pausing on that photo you always say you’re going to delete. He really wishes you wouldn’t because while you see imperfection, he sees someone who might as well have hung up the stars.

He’s the type to hover over his keyboard, those slender fingers typing and deleting the same message five times, wondering what would be too much. Would a heart emoji scare you off? Do you actually care about what he ate today?

Kicking his feet under the blankets, a few roll-arounds, when you text him “Goodnight” or “Good morning.” He bites down on a smile when you call first, just to tell him about a report or how your students are doing.

The Satoru with a crush: waking up earlier than necessary, neglecting the sleep his body begs for just to see if you’re online. If that typing bubble will pop up. If maybe - just maybe - you’re retyping too. If you crave him, even a fraction of the way he yearns for you.

He’s brushing his teeth at 7 a.m., frustrated, because you still haven’t texted. It’s only been two hours but it feels like forever. A foamy grin takes over his face when he sees the typing bubble. He checks, read receipts off. Just in case. He can't be caught looking desperate. Can't break down that wall just yet. Using his ego as a barrier to the real him.

Then the chime. Your message. Choking on toothpaste. Satoru has to pace his apartment like an idiot to calm down. A little circle around the coffee table, just to burn off the nerves. The soft patter of his giddy footsteps. Then he finally types back, “Good morning :)", though what he wants to say is “Did you sleep well?” or “Did you dream of me?”

And then, his smile falters. Do you think of him as Satoru, or as Gojo Satoru? Because there’s a difference. To mask the loneliness, swallowing the negative thoughts, he imagines you still curled up in bed, cheek smooshed into your pillow. Wonders how warm you’d be. If he were there, would you two stay wrapped up for an extra hour? Would you press a sleepy kiss to his cheek? Would you peck his face as many times as he would to yours?

When the silly little crush turns into something more - when it becomes a relationship.

Your mug sits next to his in the cabinet now. You brush your teeth together in the mornings. A playful nudge here and there. Giggling when he tries (and fails) to perfect an omelet. He makes character bentos for you on his day off, baby-blues crinkling with every smile.

And still - Satoru tries to play it cool. He wants to love you like a dog loves its favorite person, unconditionally, shamelessly, wholly. He wants to claim you as his and forget the rest of the world.

But he’s scared.

Scared that if he reaches too far, you won’t be there in the morning. That he’ll lose the luxury of placing his toothbrush next to yours. That there won’t be any more grocery trips where you both pause in the sweets aisle for far too long.

Scared you’ll pull away the second he starts reaching for miles instead of inches.

So he smiles. He jokes. Keeps the Gojo Satoru mask on. Because love is terrifying. It’s carving out your heart and handing it to someone, hoping they don’t drop it.

The first argument starts over something stupid. Most do. But it spirals. You don’t understand why he’s distant. Why he won’t let you all the way in. And he doesn’t know how to tell you that he’s terrified.

Because loving you means showing you the sharpest parts of himself. The ones buried behind smug grins and careless jokes. And he’s not sure you’ll still love him once you see them.

So he says something awful.

“Let’s break up.”

The words leave him in shards, clawing their way out of his throat. Words he doesn’t mean. A defense mechanism that works too well.

You freeze. He sees it in your eyes, shock, then hurt, then that dreadful look like you’re already pulling away.

And maybe… maybe that’s what he wants.

Because if he ends it now, if he’s the one who walks away, then he doesn’t have to know what it feels like to lose you for real. Doesn’t have to picture your body in a morgue because he couldn’t save you. Doesn’t have to imagine the world moving on without you in it.

It’s easier this way. That’s what he keeps telling himself.

Even as he stares at that imperfect photo of you still sitting on your Instagram while all the imperfect ones of you together are long gone. Scrubbed clean, no more cheeky smiles. No more subtle photos of you both on dates. As if pretending you never happened will make it hurt less. But it doesn’t. He’s left behind with nothing but the silence. And the tears that fall quietly onto the screen, threatening to like that photo from ages ago.

You forgot your toothbrush. But you left your house key.

His bed is still cold.

And god, he wishes you’d just send one more text.

[eufezco]

bucky's sexual drive had been in negative numbers for so long.

it might be because of the antidepressants his therapist was prescribing. he’d read the side effects on the label, and decreased libido had been listed there in tiny, as if it were just another minor inconvenience—like dry mouth or dizziness. but he couldn't complain about that because he needed those pills, as much as he tried to deny it. they kept away the nightmares, the spirals... but they also kept away everything else. the desire, the excitement, the flicker of interest when someone laughed at his dry humor or looked at him like he was something more than a ghost of the past.

it might be because of him. relationships required energy, patience, trust—and he was still working on having that with himself. some nights he wondered if under all the layers of trauma and cold metal there was still a part of him capable of wanting the way he used to, back when things were simpler. back when he was just bucky barnes, before the war, before hydra, before all of it.

but bucky rather think that it was because he never met anyone like you before. of course he had met cute girls. kind, smart, even a few who had given him that lingering glance that invited something more. but it never quite clicked. not in the way it should. not in the way that it used to.

you were all of that.

kind, smart, you matched his dry humor, laughed at his dark jokes because you knew that was his way of copying, and you laughed in a genuine way, not with the awkward politeness others gave him. you also didn’t shy away from the scars, you didn't stare at his metal arm and make him feel like a freak, like he was beyond repair. you didn’t flinch when your fingers brushed against his cold metal hand.

and you were beautiful and so sexy. was he allowed to think that? because, god help him, he did.

sam always told him that he had a staring problem but with you? bucky was pretty sure you could call the cops on him for how much he stared. it wasn’t intentional—at least, not at first. but then the wind would catch your skirt, revealing just a few more inches of your leg, or you’d push your hair behind your ear, exposing the soft skin of your neck, or bite your lip when you were deep in thought, and suddenly, he was gone, swallowing hard and forcing himself to look away before his thoughts could betray him any further.

after a long day, bucky let himself fall onto the bed.

the second he was alone, he let out a big huff and ran his hands over his face, like that would somehow erase the thoughts running wild in his head. it didn’t. nothing could. because you were still there, burned into his mind. the way you had looked this evening—the way you always looked—had him all kinds of messed up.

the entire town had gathered at the harbor to celebrate that the boat was finally restored, thanks to him and sam. it had been a good day, a rare kind of day where he felt normal, not a soldier, not a weapon. and, of course, you had been there.

bucky had tried—really tried—to focus on everything else: the music, the food, the way the people clapped him on the back like he belonged. and then you had hugged him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. his hands found your hips. he felt the soft curve of you beneath his touch, he inhaled the faint scent of whatever perfume you always wore and his brain short-circuited.

now, in his bed—the one he had bought only because you told him he could no longer sleep on the floor—bucky rubbed his face, trying to calm himself. the heat crept up the back of his neck, spreading down his spine. hours later, he could still feel the shape of you against his hands, the way your body pressed tight against his. the knot low in his stomach twisted and he felt his pants get tighter. fuck, he mumbled to himself.

bucky took a breath through his nose and moved his hands to palm himself through his jeans. his breath hitched, he was already so hard it hurt. it was pathetic.

he should feel ashamed for letting you—the thought of you—completely unravel him. but he didn't because, goddamn, the way you had looked today, the way you had smiled at him, the way your dress hugged your body in all the right places… his fingers found the buckle of his belt, hesitating for only a second before undoing it. it was too much for a man who had spent so long pretending he didn’t want. pretending he didn’t need.

bucky lowered his zipper. god, would he even remember how to do this? he had tried before, he had let his hand wander, hoping that maybe he could feel something again. but it never worked. his body never responded the way it should, his mind too lost in thoughts. but this time, when he slipped his hand inside his underwear, he exhaled sharply as his fingers wrapped around himself, his head tipped back against the pillow and his chest rose and fell slowly.

his eyes closed shut. that way it was easy to remember you dancing as the sun went down, the way you moved your hips, completely unaware of what you were doing to him as he stood there, beer in hand, watching you with a hunger he barely understood, much less controlled. the way your lips had parted slightly when your gaze met his, like maybe you knew, like maybe you wanted him just as badly as he wanted you.

his hand moved up and down his length, slow and deliberate. he felt the thick vein beneath his fingers, the way he pulsed into the warmth of his own palm. bucky tried to breath through his nose to stay quiet, biting his lip down, but his mouth parted and a shaky moan slipped free as he gave in.

he imagined your hands on him instead of his own, your fingers tracing down his stomach and wrapping around him with a softness he hadn’t felt in years. he imagined your voice whispering his name like a prayer and what it would feel like to have your lips against his.

fuck, he was so sensitive. his hips lifted from the bed as his hand moved faster, his grip tightened and his breath came in sharp, uneven pants. his mind was completely lost in the pleasure, it had been decades since he had felt something like this. the years in hydra, the years in wakanda, the years he’d been blipped, he didn’t even think he’d have enough peace to search for pleasure.

but now you were in his life.

his hips continued lifting from the mattress, his body desperate for more. his muscles tensed, his stomach getting tight, tighter— his metal arm reached out blindly, grasping for something to quiet himself. his fingers found the pillow beside him, and he pulled it close, pressing it against his mouth in a desperate attempt to muffle his moans.

he was close. too close.

bucky squirmed on the bed, his body caught between the pleasure and the overwhelming sensitivity. his hips jerked as he attempted to escape his own hand, but his body had other plans—chasing the friction even as it made him shudder.

his head pressed back into the pillow, his entire body shaking as he came with a loud moan against the pillow, and the only name on his lips was yours.

the next few seconds, bucky tried to catch his breath. he dropped the pillow that he used to cover his mouth, his chest rose and fell slowly. he dragged his metal hand over his face, the other one still inside his jeans, fingers sticky. god, he came in his pants. he swallowed hard, his jaw clenching as he used his cold metal fingers so massage his temples.

even now, when his body still felt too sensitive, his mind still hazy—he couldn't stop thinking about you. with your laugh, your kindness, your stupid little smirk whenever you caught him staring—because sam was right, he did have a staring problem. but how could he not?

bucky let out a sharp breath and forced himself to move to clean up. he had no idea how the hell he was supposed to look you in the eyes tomorrow after your name broke from his lips when the first orgasm in years hit him.

[neigepomme]

given his risky occupation as one of the farspace fleet's colonels, one thing caleb cannot give you is a proper wedding with celebration.

it's not that he doesn't want to, far from it. he'd do anything to organize an event, as gorgeous as you are, with the people who matter the most to the two of you. loving you is something he never wanted to keep secret — he is yours, always yours — ring on your finger or not.

however, it's because caleb loves you that he has to keep everything secret. you swear up and down that he's enough for you, that your elopement is the greatest thing that happened to you, and that the intimacy of it all was representative of your relationship.

"i'm okay with it being secret, caleb. i understand why, and i'm happy just having you by my side."

he knows you wouldn't lie about your love. he sees it in your eyes, in the hushed laughter, and excited whispers of "we're married!" in your soft voice. he can tell by the way you squeeze his hand and brush your thumb over the silver band on his ring finger.

caleb knows that you wish you could tell your friends, though. when you're talking to tara on the phone, and there's a beat of hesitation before you call caleb your boyfriend — although the ring you wear on your left hand proves that he's way more than that.

in the dead of night, he thinks about it. he watches your sleeping form, curled up next to him, and caleb can't help spiraling into negative thoughts. he brushes your cheek softly, careful as to not wake you up, and he thinks.

is your love forever going to be hidden?

will he ever get the chance to see you walk down a proper aisle, surrounded by flowers and those who mattered most?

he thinks, thinks again and again, and before he can even realize it, he starts sniffling a bit. his love consumes his entire being, his very existence dictated by the adoration he holds for you, and yet — he feels that it's not enough. caleb feels that you deserve more, and he's helpless in the face of that revelation.

he'll just have to hold that distorted truth in his heart for more time, despite all of your reassurances.

in the meantime, he'll find solace in the thought that maybe in another world or dimension — a kinder one where you two never had to suffer to the hands of EVER — he'd be able to shout his love for you from the rooftops.

caleb will keep holding you and find glimpses of happiness in the subtle intricacies of your hidden love.

maybe one day. maybe in this world and dimension.

🍎 pomme's notes — sorry.. back to back angst :9 let me twist the knife a little more tho i recommend listening to aston by jiwoo for enhanced reading experience!!!

[jacksabbotts]

✧ cold storage — ❪ part two ❫

. ᵒ . ➛ PAIR . dr. jack abbot ( the pitt ) x fem!morguetech!reader . ᵒ . ➛ SUMMARY . after jack’s furious outburst in the morgue, you can’t sit with the silence—or the guilt. even with no space left and no backup available, you wheels a stretcher up to the er yourself, determined to prove you are doing your job. what follows is a quiet, desperate attempt to avoid confrontation while making things right even if it means handling four dead bodies alone. . ᵒ . ➛ TRIGGER WARNINGS . lowercase intended!!! \ age gap ( reader is late 20s, jack is late 40s ) \ medical setting ( hospital/morgue ) \ mentions of corpses / dead bodies / autopsy prep \ death discussed clinically \ anxiety / overthinking / spiraling thoughts \ harsh tone from a superior ( prior scene reference ) \ self-isolation / emotional suppression \ physical overexertion / self-neglect \ internalized guilt \ negative self-talk \ touch aversion ( mild )

main masterlist | series masterlist | join the taglist | inbox | dividers by @cafekitsune

you pressed the button for the third floor.

the elevator doors closed too slowly.

your hands were clammy around the collapsible gurney handle, your palms sticking to the rubber grip as the platform shuddered into motion. you hated these elevators—how loud they were, how long they took, how the lights overhead always buzzed like they were about to die.

you hated this entire decision.

but you were doing it anyway.

because it had been an hour since he stormed out and the silence was unbearable.

you’d refreshed your email inbox eight times. no response from admin. no pickup update from the funeral home. no call from your boss the medical examiner, who was likely asleep and blissfully unaware of the fact that the basement morgue was packed full and you were about to try and make room for four more.

this was stupid.

there was no room.

but the idea of him—jack abbot—still believing you weren’t doing your job? that you were down here eating lentil soup while patients bled out upstairs?

it gnawed at you. it rotted you.

so you brought the gurney. the elevator dinged at every floor like it was mocking you. you exhaled slowly. in through the nose. out through the mouth.

okay. just apologize. simple. direct. professional.

you tried again, whispering under your breath :

'dr. abbot, i just wanted to say i’m sorry again for the delay—'

no. too stiff. too scripted.

'i know it’s not ideal, but i’m doing my best to keep things moving—'

too defensive.

'i didn’t mean to make things harder for you, i just—'

too pathetic.

the elevator stopped at the second floor. no one got in. you swallowed hard. tried again.

'it’s just me downstairs. i’ve been trying to manage everything as best i can. i should’ve escalated the situation sooner. i’m really, truly sorry—'

and then maybe he’d say—

no.

no, don’t imagine what he’ll say.

you weren’t good at that.

jack didn’t follow scripts. he didn’t talk like anyone else. he didn’t even look at you like anyone else did—and you weren’t sure if that was good or bad yet. all you knew was that when his voice had filled that cold little morgue, something inside you had snapped in half.

no matter which version you picked, they all made your stomach twist. none of them sounded right. none of them felt like enough.

you shouldn’t be doing this. you shouldn’t be making space for four new bodies. but the funeral home had come through early—just two pickups, but enough to buy you drawer room and a single empty table.

you could’ve waited for security to bring them down.

but part of you didn’t want to look like you were hiding.

the elevator dinged.

the doors opened into fluorescent light and barely-controlled chaos. someone shouted a room number. monitors beeped down the hall. a paramedic wheeled in a gurney while two residents followed, talking too fast.

you slipped into the corner like a shadow, trying to make yourself as small as possible as you scanned the room for him.

jack wasn’t there.

your shoulders dropped an inch. not in relief. not quite. you’d been bracing for impact. now you didn’t know what to do with the leftover adrenaline.

you angled your stretcher toward bay two—the furthest from the main desk, where the most recent doa had been placed. you could be fast. quiet. invisible.

'hey!'

you flinched.

dana. you didn't know her, but you know of.

of course, things could never go the way you planned them.

she strode over from the central desk, still in her navy compression top and trauma boots, a clipboard tucked under one arm. 'your the new morgue tech, right? you’re here for the stiffs?' she asked, jerking her head toward the curtain. 'jack's gonna lose his mind. he’s been bitching for hours.'

you couldn't help the rumbling in your stomach as dana referred to dr. abbot as jack. were they really that close? they seemed close in age and had the same no fuck around attitude. but you supposed it wasn't any of you business and nodded.

you nodded quickly, eyes darting toward the er entrance. 'great, i'll just get him so he can sign the transfer papers,' she turned to walk away and you stopped her with what could only be defined as a mouse peep.

'um. could you just give him the papers after i leave? i'll sign them and everything.'

dana blinked. 'why?'

you hesitated for a moment, probably trying to come up with a believable lie. 'he’s busy. he doesn’t need to worry about . . . something that’s just my job.'

she raised an eyebrow. 'you sure? he’s been chewing everyone out about this. if i tell him you’ve got space—'

'please,' you said again, more firmly. 'it’s okay, really. he needs to worry about the live ones, i've got the dead ones.' you immediately wince at your phrasing but don't say anything else.

dana looked at you for a beat too long. her expression softened slightly. 'alright, morgue girl. holler if you need any help.'

you nodded.

she patted your shoulder once—light, but enough to make you tense—and turned away without another word.

you exhaled slowly.

your hands were trembling again, just a little. the unexpected social interaction was a little more draining than you had anticipated. you adjusted your grip on the stretcher and moved toward the curtain, telling yourself you’d be gone in five minutes.

tops. no conversations. no confrontations. and absolutely no Jack, if you could help it. just a job. you were good at your job.

you took them down one at a time.

no one offered to help—not because they were cruel, but because you didn’t ask. the er was busy, and you didn’t want to pull anyone away from the living. besides, you were used to it. the elevator was slow, and the stretchers stuck sometimes when you turned them, but you managed. you always managed.

by the time you returned with the fourth body, your shoulders ached and your hands were stiff around the rails. you were sweating under your scrubs, even in the chill of the morgue—but the work gave your mind something to focus on. something that wasn’t jack abbot or the echo of his voice in your head.

the funeral home had picked up two earlier—unclaimed cases from last week. that gave you just enough room to do what needed doing, if you were smart about it.

and you were always smart about it.

you turned the thermostat down as far as it would go. the whole morgue shivered in response—cold creeping into the corners like frostbite, numbing the walls, the vents, your fingers. you didn’t mind. you preferred it that way. like a walk-in freezer, steady and sterile.

you slid the first two onto the autopsy tables. not ideal, but manageable. you pulled the vinyl covers over them and laid their charts on the tray beside each one. you’d process them later, when things were quiet again.

the third went between the file cabinets.

you’d cleared that space before—back when the coolers were under repair. it wasn’t perfect, but it was dark and low and close to the vents. the cold pooled there. it would hold.

the last body took the most time.

there was nowhere left.

you looked around the room, scanning every corner, every shadow, until your gaze landed on the empty gurney beside your desk.

it wasn’t even a decision. just motion. you rolled it forward, locked the brakes, and transferred the body as gently as you could. you covered them. labeled the tag. added a note to the chart.

then sat down.

right there. at your desk. beside the dead.

it didn’t bother you.

not really.

you’d always been good at compartmentalizing. at pretending you were part of the quiet. part of the stillness. being surrounded by the dead was no different than being surrounded by filing cabinets or lab equipment. they didn’t need you to make conversation. they didn’t expect you to smile.

the body beside your desk wasn’t a person anymore.

just paperwork.

just weight.

you rubbed your fingers, cracked from the cold, and jotted down notes in your log. your breath fogged the air.

you didn’t know what time it was.

you didn’t think about jack.

not directly.

but your hands trembled when you reached for the next file.

just a little.

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