#only to find that the unlocked perfectly functional door always gets stuck when he tries to open it

[brucie-baby]

Sentient Wayne Manor au in my head i love you

[simplyclockwork]

If you are still taking prompts I’d love a fic where Sherlock is in handcuffs for some (not sex related reason). Either he has been arrested, or Lestrade or John or Mycroft are trying to keep him out of trouble, or he put them on for an experiment and can’t get them off. Whatever you wish. The point being he is outraged to be in handcuffs, unable to get out of them. I’m over 18, though I’m not seeing this as a smutty piece. Thank you.

Sorry for the wait, anon! I've finally filled your prompt, which you can read below the page break, or on Ao3 here!

Thank you for the prompt and please feel free to send more in the future if you're okay with waiting a bit for it to be filled :)

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The great Sherlock Holmes had landed himself in a rather interesting situation, all through his own fault and an unfortunate misjudgement. Typically, Sherlock knew, he could intellectualize his way out of most close calls and mishaps. But not today.

Today, Sherlock Holmes was stuck in a pair of handcuffs. Not only was he stuck in said handcuffs, but he’d had the not-so-brilliant idea of cuffing himself to the towel rack in the bathroom. There was a purpose to it, as there always was when he conducted an experiment. An old cold case, a dead man discovered handcuffed to a towel rack in a bathroom, keys nowhere in sight. No sign of foul play or anyone having been in the house when the man’s unfortunate handcuffing occurred. Sherlock, intrigued, had worked to recreate the case using himself as a subject. In preparation, he had reinforced the towel rack, lifted a pair of proper cuffs from Lestrade’s utility belt at their last case, and locked himself in place in a mimicry of the unfortunate soul.

He then promptly dropped the key on the floor and kicked it — quite accidentally — far out of range beneath the claw-foot tub. That had been four hours ago, and Sherlock had been standing awkwardly between toilet and sink with his wrists locked over his head at an uncomfortable angle. His arms grew numb within the first half-hour, feeling lost within a half-hour after that, and now ached terribly. His legs were cramping, the discomfort alleviated only by Sherlock twisting his body in an awkward bend to sit on the toilet seat. And while that position rested his legs, it placed a terrible strain upon his shoulders, forcing him to revert to standing within five minutes.

He was, to put it mildly, furious. Also, just a touch embarrassed, not that he would admit that to anyone but himself.

All in all, the experiment was proving to be a dismal failure. Although, Sherlock was beginning to understand how the man might have died, seeing as he had locked himself in the bathroom while living alone, his family miles away out of the city, with no one expected at the flat for several days. It was now painfully — in a very literal sense — easy to see just how and why the man had died. The man’s motive for handcuffing himself in the first place was harder to understand. Unless he’d been aiming for a slow, awful death, in which case he’d clearly succeeded, judging by the pain radiating through Sherlock’s body.

As luck would have it, Sherlock did have a flatmate. A man who would, eventually, have to use the loo and would hopefully come to Sherlock’s rescue. But John was working today and wasn’t due home for another three hours.

With a bone-deep sigh and a wince for his aching body, Sherlock rested his forehead against the wall and settled in for a wait.

It was going to be a long day.

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

It had been a long day.

Numerous staffing sick calls and several crotchety patients with rather awful, infectious symptoms had run John ragged throughout his shift at the clinic. His feet were dragging, his head pounding, when he finally dragged himself home and up the seventeen stairs to the flat where he lived with Sherlock. He wanted nothing more than to crack open a beer, order some takeaway, and plunk himself on the couch until he could take himself off to bed.

But first, John knew he would have to deal with whatever chaos Sherlock had enacted while John was at work. They had no case on, and Sherlock had been a whirlwind of boredom and frustration for the past several days. The night before, he had taken to a stack of cold cases dropped off by Lestrade as a blessing in disguise. John had gone to bed with Sherlock spreading case files all over the living room and muttering to himself, and he’d woken to more of the same. So it wasn’t entirely out of order for him to anticipate a similar tableau when he stepped through the entryway and into the sitting room.

The space did look much the same, festooned with a chaotic mess of papers and manila folders, grisly photographs spread over the walls, sofa, and coffee table. While all this was familiar, there was the apparent absence of one neurotic detective flatmate, missing among the mess.

John glanced at the coatrack, saw Sherlock’s familiar Belstaff and his scarf, both still hanging in their respective places. So he hadn’t gone out. There was no sign of a struggle, no sound of clinking laboratory glass in the kitchen, no surge of running water clanking through the flat’s old pipes. It was almost dangerously quiet, a kind of quiet John had begun to think of as ‘the calm before the storm.’

“Sherlock?” He closed the door behind him and moving deeper into the sitting room. There was no reply. Brow furrowed, John peered into the kitchen and confirmed that it was indeed empty. He called again, “Sherlock?”

Nothing.

With a rising sense of concern, John trotted down the hallway and peered into Sherlock’s room. It, too, was empty. The bed was perfectly made, the sheets unmarred since Sherlock had spent the night pacing the sitting room instead of sleeping.

John was beginning to wonder if something had happened to Sherlock. Could he have been taken? Forced away and whisked off to who knew where? He reached for his phone before his eyes landed on the fogged glass door beside the bed, the one that led to the bathroom. John paused, frowning. He hesitated for a moment before stepping closer and pressing his ear to the door, feeling a flicker of discomfort before he realized he heard nothing.

Or, wait… What was that? The sound wasn’t that of a running shower or the splash of a bath, nor was it the sound of teeth brushing, face washing, or bodily functions. It was, to John’s alarm, a low groan, one of discomfort, and not one he believed to be related to… well. Bathroom things.

John grabbed the doorknob, glad to find it unlocked, and swung into the bathroom after another brief hesitation. “Sherlock, are—” The words died on his lips as John froze, taking in the sight.

Said sight was Sherlock himself, handcuffed by the wrists to a fearfully strong towel rack, hanging limply with his sweat-soaked curls dangling in his face. He looked pale and pained, his face twisted by discomfort, half-awake and bent into an awkward position between toilet and sink.

“What in the bloody hell?” John managed once the initial shock had worn off. He started forward, frowning as Sherlock lifted his head and blinked blearily at him.

“Ah, John,” he said in a voice closer to a croak than his usual rumble, “there you are.”

“Yep, here I am,” John replied in disbelief, eyes moving rapidly over Sherlock as he tried to assess his condition. The red marks on Sherlock’s wrists and the pale, blueish hue of his fingers were concerning. “What happened? Did someone attack you?” He cast back over his memory of the sitting room. “Were we robbed?”

Sherlock shook his head and grimaced. He straightened with a groan, his features twisting with evident pain. “Not robbed,” he rasped, looking suddenly abashed.

“Then who did this to you?” John demanded.

Sherlock’s expression turned sheepish. “I did it to myself.”

The confession froze John in place, poised as he was to reach up and test the circulation in Sherlock’s fingers. He turned his head, coming face-to-face with Sherlock, inches apart, and blinked. “What?” When no answer was forthcoming, he asked, “Why? Is this some kind of kink? No judgement, but this doesn’t seem like it was meant to go this way.”

“It was for an experiment,” Sherlock replied in a clipped voice, avoiding John’s eyes before tilting his chin toward the tub. “The keys are under there.”

Still struggling to process Sherlock’s words, John automatically bent and felt beneath the tub, grabbing as his fingers encountered metal. He straightened up slowly, still bemused, the keys in hand. “What kind of experiment requires you to handcuff yourself to a towel rack?” John asked, reaching up to unlock Sherlock’s wrists and knowing the answer would likely be beyond him. No doubt, it would all be due to some inane reason John would never understand.

As Sherlock began to babble about the unsolved case — now solved at the expense of Sherlock’s circulation — John saw that he was right.

“So, let me get this straight,” he began, as Sherlock let out a grateful groan and began to rub at his freed wrists with clumsy fingers. “A man died handcuffed to his towel rack, and you thought it would be a brilliant idea to re-enact said scenario even though everything pointed to the man dying from said cuffing?”

Sherlock was silent for so long that John didn’t think he would answer. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Yes.”

John pressed a hand to his forehead, closing his eyes as he prayed for patience. “I will never understand you,” he said in an exhausted voice, suddenly wishing he’d had that beer before he bothered to look for his mad flatmate.

There was a smug edge to Sherlock’s voice as he replied, “I should hope not, John. The day you understand me will be the day there are no more mysteries to solve in the universe.”

Rolling his eyes, John snagged Sherlock’s elbow and steered him toward the kitchen. “God forbid,” he replied, trying and failing to keep a hold on his amusement. “Now, shut up and let me see to these wrists.”

Sherlock let John shove him into a chair with an indulgent smile. “Of course, Doctor Watson.”

[shookethbrooketh]

seven days

day one

summary: dan is stuck in the wrong timeline. one day, he kisses phil goodnight. the next morning, he’s completely alone. he doesn’t even recognize where he wakes up, and little details in the world around him have changed. he has no clue what’s happening or where to go next in an effort to fix it; all he knows is that he has to find phil.

genre: sci-fi, a lil bit of angst, happy ending

warnings: none (for now)

fic word count: 2.0k (but there will be more!) chapter word count: 2.0k

written for the @phandomreversebang !  inspired by the awesome moodboard by @maybeformepersonally !  beta’d (beginning to end) by @i-might-just-leave-soon !

a/n: i’ll be updating this fic every wednesday for the next six wednesdays, and then it’ll be finished (y’know, seven chapters)! after that i will, for the most part, retire from fic writing. thank you to everyone who’s supported my writing over the years! 

read it on ao3

“I’m exhausted,” Dan said, stretching his lanky body as he clambered off the couch. He and Phil had just finished the Game of Thrones finale, and he was ready to fall over in bed. He put out a hand to pull Phil off the couch with him, and the two of them staggered sleepily into their bedroom, not even bothering to brush their teeth. They collapse into bed, and Dan barely gathers the effort to rotate towards Phil and plant a goodnight kiss on his forehead. That was their evening tradition: a kiss on the forehead before bed. 

“Goodnight, Dan,” Phil muttered, the edges of his mouth twitching up peacefully as he acknowledged Dan’s kiss. 

“Goodnight, Phil.” 

That was the last thing Dan remembered. Of course, Dan remembered everything about Phil, but that was the last of it. He fell asleep beside Phil, the love of his life, and he woke up somewhere he couldn’t identify. At first, he simply panicked, concerned that he had been YouTuber-napped. Then he looked around the room and found pictures of himself. There were pictures of him with his family, pictures with his dog, Colin, and pictures with people he’d never seen before. The immediate fear dissipated into pure confusion; he didn’t remember taking any of those photos. 

Dan peeled himself out of bed and picked up his phone. He tried to look at it, but it was blurry, even though it was right in front of his face. He blinked a few times, but he could tell this wasn’t the blur of sleep. Eventually, he noticed a pair of glasses sitting on the bedside table. He glanced around for a moment before cautiously picking up the glasses and putting them on. With them, he could see the phone perfectly. That was odd, he thought. He had never been farsighted before.

His phone looked strange as well. The screen was smaller, and his background was of a man he didn’t recognize. When he unlocked it, he found most of the same apps he had the night before, but when he went to Twitter, his verification was gone, and he found that he had only 934 followers. Dan was no longer a YouTuber. 

Immediately Dan began to question what exactly he was, but at that point he had no care for such a thing. He threw himself into motion, throwing on a shirt he didn’t own and shorts he wouldn’t usually choose to buy. As he whirled through “his” apartment, Dan only cared about one thing: finding Phil. 

He tore out of the building, not stopping to think. None of his movements made even a bit of sense; he jerked his head left and right, attempting desperately to figure out where he was and ignoring the map on his phone. His mind was so clouded by his confusion and fear that he had no logic left. 

Dan took off aimlessly running down the street, a feat that was already uncommon for him, searching for anything familiar amidst the chaos. After a few minutes, he slumped into a bench and put his head in his hands. 

“What in the absolute fuck is going on?” Dan whispered to himself. He threw his head back and ran his hands through his hair, which he suddenly realized was straight. That was impossible; he would never be able to wake up with straight hair. 

After getting struck across the face with even more confusion, Dan finally managed to attempt to think about his situation. He looked himself up and down; the clothes he had picked up were all pastel pink. “What the hell? Is this some Opposite Day bullshit?” Dan swore again, unsure if he had the restraint at that point to utter a sentence without cursing. 

A cab approached, and Dan decided to wave it over. He climbed in and told the driver to take him to his old address; maybe Phil would be there. 

On the ride over, he pulled the small phone out of his back pocket and reopened Twitter. The account he opened up to appeared to be an aesthetic account devoted to the color pink. It had his name on it, but it certainly wasn’t his. 

He switched to the search function and searched ‘phil lester.’ A full page of accounts popped up, but, on first glance, none of them appeared to be Phil. He looked through them each, to no avail. Social media didn’t appear to be helpful in this situation. 

Before long, they were at his flat; they were much closer than Dan had anticipated. He paid the driver with money he found in the case of the phone, clambered out of the cab, and made his way up the stairs and to his door. He was sweating a bit after the walking; finally, he felt at home. As he knocked on the door, anxiety welled up in his stomach. Suddenly the door opened, and he found himself face to face with a very tall, very slightly dressed woman. “What do you want?” she said, a harsh tone to her voice. She clearly had yet to have her morning cup of coffee; it reminded him a bit of Phil. 

“Hi, I’m so sorry to bother you, but have you seen Phil Lester?”

“Nope,” she said, slamming the door in his face before he even had a chance to apologize again. 

“Well, that was fun,” he said into the void. He backtracked down the stairs and realized that he’d sent the cab away. He took a deep breath, far more annoyed than the word annoyed could convey, and waited for another. Luckily, it came quickly, but the ride to their first London flat, which was his last guess as to where he’d find Phil, was a bit longer, so he still had to wait. He decided to take advantage of the time and explore the phone that had basically been dropped into his lap. As any normal Internet dweller would, he first searched through the camera roll. The majority of the camera roll appeared to be pictures for the pink Twitter account, but he’d find the occasional meme or selfie of him in all pastel clothes. He didn’t particularly enjoy it, but he supposed he could see why the fanfic writers seemed to take such a liking to it. 

Suddenly, his mind shifted to the life he’d built with Phil as he realized everything was gone. Not only was his relationship with Phil gone, but the fanbase they’d built was gone too. He was certain all the people that made it up still existed, but it occurred to him for the first time that he no longer had any fans. There were no longer blogs, Instagram accounts, or group chats dedicated to him. It felt freeing, almost, but also deeply saddening. All the lives he’d impacted were suddenly the same as they’d have been had he chosen to never upload Hello Internet in the first place. His heart swelled with determination to find Phil and return to a universe where the two of them had built their own universe. Thinking back to all the people who had told him on tour that he and Phil had saved their lives, he knew he had no choice but to find Phil. 

The taxi pulled up to their first London flat, and he couldn’t help but crack a smile looking at the building. He and Phil had grown so much in that apartment, and he still felt a bit as if it was his home. This time, being more realistic, he told the driver to wait before he made his way over to the apartment complex. He climbed another set of stairs that he was all too familiar with, and his body almost seemed to transport back four years as he relived his memories of that flat. 

This time, he was a bit more optimistic as he knocked on the door. He took a deep breath and stood there for a moment, a combination of hope and fear filling his lungs as time passed. Finally, he realized nobody was going to answer the door, and put his head down as he made his way back down to the taxi. 

Dan sighed and pulled up Maps to direct the driver back to the apartment he’d woken up in. Luckily, whatever stranger he had taken over the life of bothered to put “Home” into the app, because Dan hadn’t a clue how to get back to the building he’d ran from. He sat hopelessly, thinking of nothing at all until he arrived back at the apartment. He paid yet another driver with money that wasn’t even his and climbed even more stairs, only managing to find “his” flat because he’d left the door open in his frenzy. 

He slammed the door closed and flopped onto the bed he’d rolled out of. He had only one more idea. He did a quick Google search and pulled up the only resource he had left: a London phone book. He found nearly as many ‘Phil Lester’s as he did on Twitter, but none of them had Phil’s phone number. Still, too suspicious to give up, he called each number. Some of them didn’t answer, but it was clear that none of the ones that did were Phil. Well, at least they weren’t his Phil. 

Tears pooled in his eyes as he jerked forward. “Fuck, DAMNIT!” he shouted, throwing a punch into the mattress and then curling the sheets into his hand. “I don’t know what to do,” he said to no one at all. 

The truth was that there was no one there to hear him, and it was the first time in Dan’s adult life that he’d been truly alone. Sure, Phil had left for a few days, but he always knew his life companion would return. Now, he had no clue if Phil even existed at all. He was completely alone, with no one to talk to and no one to direct him. He was like a lost child, but he was a fully functional adult in a timeline he didn’t recognize. 

Really, this was just the existential crisis to end all existential crises waiting to happen. As if life, death, and time weren’t already scary enough, now he’s being thrown around like a rag doll with no significance from one timeline into another? There was so much to contemplate that he couldn’t even begin. He rolled over onto his stomach and made himself comfortable; it was going to be a long day. 

Dan did, in fact, spend most of the day contemplating his existence, but he eventually laid eyes on a laptop that luckily had Netflix downloaded. It turned out that a new timeline had plenty of new shows. In this universe, Queer Eye contained five British lesbians. He couldn’t pass that up, could he? 

After his third episode and plenty of tears, something in the credits caught Dan’s eye. “Wait,” he breathed out, fumbling to hit the “J” key and go back. He watched again, this time much closer, and slammed the space button to pause the show. On the screen in blaring letters was a header reading “Production Manager” and underneath it: “Phil Lester”. 

Dan spasmed forward, nearly knocking the laptop off of the bed. “Holy shit!” he shouted. Sure, it was possible that he could simply be a different Phil Lester--it wasn’t like there weren’t way too many of them already--but Dan could feel it: this was his Phil. 

Dan’s mind began racing; how could he use this information? He panickedly typed “phil lester uqeer eye” into Google, not caring about his own typos, and began scrolling. He found multiple websites that credited Phil for his work on the show, but not a single website told him any of Phil’s contact information. As he searched, time ticked late into the night. Dan usually stayed up long past midnight, but after a few hours straight of existential crisis, he was exhausted. Scrolling through multiple pages of Google searches can be quite boring, so Dan nodded off shortly before the night officially ended. 

Sadly, however, there were a few things Dan didn’t know as he dozed off that evening. He didn’t know about the reminder on the phone he’d neglected all day making sure he, or the him that used to live in this timeline, didn’t forget about his first day on the production of Queer Eye. And he surely didn’t know that while he slept, as the clock struck midnight, the world began to change around him. It was like he slept in a protective bubble, holding him in place as the timeline disassembled and reassembled around his body. At 12:01, his entire universe had changed once again. Dan slept through that night in bliss ignorance until he was woken up and his world turned upside down once again. 

“Daniel!” 

[zennyshoneybunch]

The Piece That Completes Him

This is my birthday present to the sweet and amazing Rossy!!

@rossyele I hope you enjoy it and have a wonderful day!

🎁🎁🎁

It was Saturday and your birthday so you had planned to get a good night's rest and sleep in all morning. Well, that was what you had planned, but not exactly what happened.

Early in the morning, much earlier than you had hoped for, there was a loud knock at your door, followed by a huge ruckus outside.

You thought you were dreaming when some of the voices sounded familiar to you, and you were sure it was a nightmare when you opened up the door to find your entire family standing there with smiles on their faces.

They kindly explained how your beloved boyfriend was behind this marvellous surprise.

Sadly, Jihyun was too busy with his art gallery exhibition. Sunday would be the grand opening of his first ever painting exhibition. You were so proud and excited for him, you never once considered feeling sad or lonely not to be spending the entire day with him. So long you were able to see him before the day was over was enough for you. But, Jihyun being Jihyun, he felt guilty for missing your special day, so he made sure you didn't have to spend it alone, by inviting your family over, flying them on his friend Jumin’s private, company, jet.

So, that was what you ended up finding yourself doing: spending the entire day with your loud, and sometimes stressful, family. And weirdly enough you were perfectly happy with it. No matter how much you sighed and complain, you missed your family a lot. And Jihyun knew it. That perfect boyfriend of yours, that your family already loved as much as you did, knew you better than you knew yourself sometimes.

In the end, your birthday was happy and festive, and, just like he had expected, not lonely at all.

By the end of the day, right after seeing your family off, you got a text from your handsome lover.

“I hope you had a wonderful day with your family, my love. Can I ask for a selfish favor and have you come to the gallery? I would love for you to be the first person to see it, now that it's complete.”

There was no way you would ever say no to him, no matter what he asked, so you made a quick stop at your place, to change into more date suitable clothes, and off you went to meet the man of your life.

You arrived at the art gallery and tried to peek through the door window, but it wasn't the see-through kind. You knocked softly and waited, but no one answered.

- This is the right place.

Jihyun's name was on a large banner stand by the wall, so you were certain about it. Where could he be?

You tried the door and it was unlocked, so you pushed it and walked inside. The place was in complete darkness, except for the small lights that reflected the art pieces and the few candles, strategically scattered around the room.

You smiled, knowing those candles weren’t part of the decoration, but your boyfriend’s doing. You were about to call his name when a big hand softly obscured your vision, and the heat from a tall and lean body engulfed yours from behind. A sweet, and very well-known, voice whispered in your ear:

- Happy Birthday, my dear!

He uncovered your eyes, allowing you to see the beautiful bouquet, of your favourite flowers, he was holding in his other hand. As soon as you took them, breathing its delightful smell, he seized the opportunity to hold you close in his arms, resting his chin on top of your shoulder.

- I missed you all day. Thank you for being so understanding and patient with me. I know I’m at fault.

- Don’t say that, you know how happy I am for you!

- I know. I am a very lucky man.

He released you from his embrace and stepped to the side, keeping an arm around your waist and the other extended in front of you.

- Would you care for a private tour?

- Absolutely!

One by one, he led you around the gallery, showing you all of his finished works. You have already seen most of them, but some were still new to you. Once again you realized how absolutely talented he was.

His subjects were still very much connected with his travels and the nature life, and his favourite one, the sun, was also represented in most of the paintings, either in a direct or indirect way.

Every piece was beautiful, but to you the happy and confident smile on his lips was the best work of art you’d ever seen.

- I’m so proud of you, Jihyun! You worked so hard and you’ve done so well. Everyone will love this exhibition, I’m certain of it!

He laughed, a little embarrassed by your praise.

- Thank you, my love, but there is one last piece I want you to see.

Holding your hand in his soft, but manly, one, he pulled you along to the restricted area.

- You have one hidden in here?

- Yes. This one is not part of the exhibition, it’s something I worked on for myself.

He pulled you through the corridor until you reached a door identified as ‘Private’.

- This is the studio the gallery reserved for me while the exhibition is being held.

He opened the door, allowing you in first. A soft music was playing and a table set in the middle of the room, with champagne and a beautiful birthday cake.

You were about to thank him for the surprise when something suddenly grabbed your attention.

There, in the narrow studio’s wall, was a set of small square canvas, carefully placed so that all the pieces together would show the complete image of your smiling face. Like a large puzzle.

Your lips formed a little surprised ‘o’, but no sound escaped them. Again you felt the known heat on you back as Jihyun embraced you.

- Whenever I felt discouraged or stuck, I worked on it to clear my head. It always gave me the peace and inspiration I needed.

You could barely speak. The love and care he poured on it was obvious in each struck of brush.

- Jihyun…

- I kept it here because I didn’t want you to see it before it was complete. You are my inspiration, you always know exactly what to say to make me feel better and stronger.

Moving slightly away, he turned you around, holding you loosely by the waist and looking deep into your eyes.

- I made it into a puzzle because to me you are like a puzzle piece. Without you I will still be able to function and people will still see me as who I am, but I will never be complete. Only you can make me whole.

Your heart felt like bursting with happiness, but your tongue was tied, the lump on your throat threatening to make you cry.

Gently, he stroke your cheek.

- I never thought I would be given another chance at love, or that I would even deserve one, until I met you. You are my second chance. At love, at happiness, at life. You are my true love. I love you.

Tears were starting to prickle your eyes and you looked down to conceal them.

- Jihyun, you are going to make me cry.

He chuckled kissing you on your forehead and hugging you tighter.

- Apologies, I just wanted you to know how much you mean to me.

- You mean the world to me too. I love you, Jihyun.

At last his lips found yours, and the soft kisses gradually turned into hungrier, deeper, ones.

His tongue explored the inside of your mouth the same way his hands explored the inside of your blouse: tenderly and sensually.

The fire, once ignited, was impossible to quench and soon enough you were both naked and tangled between a fluffy set of sheets, basking on each other's body heat.

And the little jewelry box he had hidden in his coat’s pocket would have to wait a bit more.

He couldn’t resist his beautiful girl, after all.

🎁🎁🎁

Happy Birthday Rossy!!!

[why-to-kay]

Wrong Hope

So here it is. My emotional rock bottom. Actually, i’m not going to hold back this time.

For three months i have being getting over a relationship break up. For three months i have been wondering if i have overreacted to it, if i have become obsessed over it, if three months is actually enough time to get over it, if other people were to look at me would they see a rational response or would they wonder if i’m going crazy over this. For three months i have had all this in my head and more and i have been wondering when it will cease. I want it to stop. 

A cancer in my mind, eating away at my thoughts. Reoccurring dreams that seem to beat me, hurt me, inflict great pain upon me and in all of it i feel SELFISH. I’m feeling this and then there are people who have it worse than me, so I invalidate my own feelings and i’m just tired of it. I feel selfish because this blog, it’s all about me and i hate talking about me from a vulnerable position. 

So for these three months... trying to make friends with myself like i so often say to do is fucking hard. It’s fucking infuriating and i’m just at the fucking bottom now. The trigger for is this is possibly finding out that the girl i’ve been trying to get over is now in a relationship. Possibly. And even if this is me overreacting... actually, let me first explore that word “overreacting”. 

I write these posts when i can. I really have to force myself sometimes but i know it’s better to get this shit out there. But it’s horrible. It’s uncomfortable and EVERY time i write one, i feel like i’m blowing my feelings out of proportion, that i’m whining and that i’m going through something everyone has at one point so i should just shut up and take it. When i say overreacting, i mean it in the literal sense of me reacting to something TOO much. 

Even if this is me overreacting to some snippets of conversation and me inferring that she is now in a relationship, it doesn’t fucking matter. She will get over me and i her and sooner or later one of us will be in a relationship with someone else first. Right? This might be the day i’ve been dreading or it might get delayed. Now that i’ve had this possible “scare”, i may as well deal with it all now. So i will. And this will be my longest post and i will get everything out there because the energy expenditure to not scream this all, to not run for 9 hours to her house and shout it at her is just simply too much for me to bear.

When i sit at my computer typing these, i hope beyond hope that she will read them. Not to make her feel guilty, not to cause her pain but for her to see that i am changing. That i’m trying so fucking desperately to keep my head above this sea of shit. As my friend said, sometimes i just get stuck in the swamp of sadness, mud and shit. It all clings to me as i try frantically to wade out of it. But after a while, i just stop trying. I fall to my knees and i just rub it all in, because after all, why should i try to get out? Why should i fight this creeping malaise? My friend describes it like this because he can figuratively see it on me. He tries to help me but what’s the point if i don’t help myself. I digress here but can you just see what happens, can you visualise it? Battling against your own internal conflict and this knot in your stomach that makes you want to wretch your heart out. It’s a waking nightmare and a sleeping dog ready to sniff out your moment of weakness and strike you with memories, pain and a fear of being alone. 

It’s all so emotive because that’s just how it has to be. How else do i convey these feelings? Allow me to tell a story that will perfectly illuminate why the fuck this all matters:

My girlfriend, she broke up with me. At first, there were these vague reasons as to why. Obviously i was dazed and nonplussed at the sheer suddenness of it all. Typically, as it all strikes us in these times, i went through the very common stages of grief. Firstly, denial swept over me like a calm wave rolling into the beach. Oh but i am lying of course, denial was never so kind. It grabbed my mind, held it tight and shouted at me in it’s delightfully booming voice “this. isn’t. happening”. What could i do but repeat those words over and over and over again. I made it my identity. 

It wasn’t happening. It was a dream. This can’t be real. This makes no sense. You’re joking, right? 

All those denial-ist phrases and more poured out of me. She replied to each one with “it is real”. After a while of sheer confusion the ever so polite anger came into the folly. But of course, his mood quickly went south and engulfed my thoughts like mould around fruit. It seeps into everything, down every passage, through every pore. All consuming and all mighty, how could i hold it back? So i got mad. I had a go at her, i insulted her, i spoke down to her but, thankfully, she took it all... to a degree. 

My seething rage was one of the most rational rages i’ve had. It wasn’t anger from a dark place, it was anger from hurt, from pain. It was an anger that could be bargained with and spoken to with a calm tongue to ease the torment behind it. That’s why, after a short time of talking, it receded into the fool’s gold of grief: bargaining. Why fool’s gold? Because it tricks you into thinking there is hope and you can talk your way out of all this shit but you can’t. It’s faux. Faux bargaining. You try to trade dignity, sometimes sex or all manner of things to get 1 minute, 1 hour, 1 day, etc. of faux resolutions that you think will stop the grief and (in my case) stop the relationship from ending. 

My faux resolution lasted 1 month. A month where i buried everything i felt deep inside. I mean i really buried it. My lovely friend denial helped. He said everything was fine and took all those worries and parts of the grief all the way down into my core... where it’d rot and fester. But as long as i wasn’t aware, my faux resolution could just quite maybe almost possibly become a real resolution, right? If i did some work on myself, if i changed, if, if, if, if, just a series of endless “ifs” that would get me closer to my gold. My fool’s gold. Typically, it fell apart. But not why you’d think. She realised that it wasn’t about me or our relationship, it was about her as a person. This is actually a really important thing i want to talk about.

We often forget that the person next to us, is us. They have ideas, dreams, goals, hopes, fears, secrets, thoughts. They are conscious. They do things to a certain code and thinking process that only slightly differs to our own in some cases. I don’t mean “our” as a collective, but rather an iterator over each member of humanity. To tie this in with what she realised, it’s also something i realised. The big beautiful word here is empathy. To empathise with her in this moment where i am hurting is something i am proud of. What she realised it she truly wasn’t happy in herself. She needs time and a friend in herself for real betterment. At first, i was cynical. But over time (and time is the greatest proponent for change), my view changed. People who read this might be cynical to everything i wrote. They might say, as i thought initially, that “she is just saying that to ease the pain on you���. But does it ease the pain? The end result is the same: we’re not together anymore. The end feelings are the same: i’m fucking miserable and miss her a lot. There is no ease. There is no need to be cynical. Her profound realisation, while it hurts me a lot, benefits her in a way i could never ever provide. Like i said, it’s not a comfort for me but thinking it could be is just selfish. What else can i do but be proud of her from afar?

That previous paragraph was a big detour but it needs to be said since it’s a revelation i’m only just having. Unfortunately, the story isn’t over, and the stages of grief must continue to perhaps the worst part of the 5 stages. Depression. I could write a book on how it feels, using every idiom, metaphor and simile i know. But in the end, depression will be in your system before you write that book and it’ll sure as hell still be there after. After that “trial month” or “faux resolution month”, everything my denial pushed down erupted in the amalgam of pure sadness. The best way i can think of describing it is like a river. While meek it looks to the observer, enter in and you shall surely be washed away by it’s current, maybe even drown. It will erode the banks you stand on, it will take the things you throw in it and cover them under it’s disgusting river bed. Memories you hold dear could so easily slip in and be washed under. Attempts to salvage them yields this black sludge that cannot be cleaned away. Soothing water is the guise it uses to lure you in. In fact, the “water” is mostly your mental energy, slowly draining away from the source. And after all is done and you simply give up, it will still be there. It will still be there. Out of the 5 stages, depression will still be there in you. 

But there’s hope. There’s always hope. However, this isn’t the pleasant end to the story since, well, there isn’t one. There is always hope true, but there’s wrong hope and right hope. I must confess that i cannot stop clinging onto the wrong hope. My final message to her, to sum up, is like closing a door but leaving it unlocked. Our relationship is over, i’ve finally accepted it but i still love her. The door is closed but, like all good functioning doors, it can be opened again. It won’t pick up what’s left off, it won’t start midway. It will open at the start of the corridor, a long winding path that has an occluded future but one filled with my favourite word of all: hope. To open it however, you must be polite and knock. You must enquire as to if anyone is behind it and open it slowly so it doesn’t creak. You must treat the door as if it’s never been opened before. It’s an unlocked door so of course it has history, but we mustn’t forget where history lead us last time. 

That was my final gift. No hate, no anger, no resentment, simply an offer that will stand like a door. Doesn’t that just sound so pure and sweet? 

Unhealthily, i’ve become attached to that sentiment. I desire it. My reoccurring dreams both fuel me and siphon me. My wrong hope is that she takes my offer when she is ready. Because i hope it so dearly and do not let it go, i am not allowing myself to get over her. Why does the thought of her being in another relationship poison my mind so? It’s due to me seeing it all as a betrayal. 

We split up amicably and because of reasons that aren’t due to incompatibility or malice towards each other. For her to be ready for a new relationship, i feel it my right that she should pick me first. That’s what my insecurity cries and my wrong hope demands. In those twisted aspects, i see this as a betrayal. I write all this to illustrate a very important point:

I am not bad. I don’t want to be bad. Having these feelings, hoping the things i hope, i feel that i am bad. Do i want her to be happy? Yes. If happiness means moving on from me and finding another person, do i want that for her? ....

No.

The guilt and sadness amalgamate in me. Thick with black does the river run. I don’t know what to do now. Honestly. I sort of feel i’m back in this “denial daze”. I want to message her and ask. I want to show her this blog and say “look at the vulnerability and tell me i’ve changed for the better, please”. I want to ask my friends if they know if she’s in a relationship or not but i can’t do that. These friendships i have are dog-eat-dog. Show one sign of “weakness” (vulnerability) and you’re fucked. Loving your ex? You’re going to get mocked to shit. 

The only positive out of all this is that i’m stopping with the “I” orientated posts. I want to help people. What we all really want it for someone to hug us and say “i see you” or “i understand you” or even just “i love you”. Innocent and innocuous, nothing more nothing less. Moments of pure understanding is what i offer to the world. Hopefully, with my lovely companion, time, will i get over that guilt and change the “no” to a “yes”.

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

Hello friends! I'm looking for some good ol' bisexual Stiles or Derek fics. It's Pride month and I'm in the mood to celebrate with sterek! Thanks

We do! Sorry it’s a little late for Pride month. But really, every fucking month should be Pride month. And here’s bisexual!Derek tag and bisexual!Stiles tag.- Anastasia

Work In Progress by dragon_temeraire

(1/1 I 1,913 I Mature)

Stiles is assigned as editor for the well-known erotica author Derek Hale.

He Was There by kingcd714

(3/? I 3,493 I Not Rated)

The Hale family moves to little Beacon Hills from New York City and Derek hates it. All his friends are on the other side of the country, he hates his new school, people are dicks and he doesn’t really fit in. One day, he meets this boy named Stiles - the most popular boy in BHHS. The two hit it off pretty damn well, and before you know it, they’re in a relationship. But everything hits a wall when Stiles’ ex, Theo, shows up. Will Derek and Stiles’ relationship survive the reappearance of Stiles’ first love?

Snow, Storms and Sterek by deadpoetssocks

(4/? I 3,649 I Teen)

The squad go on the school ski trip, only Stiles is sure it will end in disaster, especially since Derek seems to hate him. However when Stiles and Derek get trapped in a blizzard, confessions are made and it turns out Stiles was completely wrong about Derek after all.

Salmagundi by inatshej

(3/3 I 10,054 I Explicit)

Stiles' life is not just a mess anymore, it's a fucking salmagundi. Derek flirting with Kate, Stiles' heat, the confusing bite – none of it makes sense jumbled together.

Scowls & Smiles by DestielPendragon

(9/? I 12,561 I Teen)

Ye typical high school AU where Derek's all popular and Stiles is the new kid who everyone thinks is weird.

•.•.•.•

Quickly, Stiles turns towards his jeep and loads his bag into the back seat. When he turns back around, shirtless-dude is leaning down to grab something from the convertible parked next to Stiles, and Stiles sneaks a look at the guys ass. It's a pretty nice ass. The guy stands back up and pulls on a shirt, still facing away from Stiles.

"Yea I know," the guy says before turning around, startling Stiles and making him jump. "It's my ass right?"

Stiles has to scoff. "Wow." He drawls. "Someone's cocky."

I Know Places by ericaismeg for Candles_93

(1/1 I 21,271 I General)

Stiles is tired of the fame and the media that comes with being a famous actor. Lydia, his manager, gives him a three week break from his social calendar while his agent, Peter, is off doing who knows what, who knows where. At the last function before his break, Stiles finally meets Derek Hale - the nephew that Peter has been shunned by for the past six and a half years.

Stiles knows how twisted the tabloids get things, it's why he's avoided doing anything remotely scandalous for his entire life. But when Derek Hale wants to get coffee with him, Stiles doesn't care what anyone else says. He's going.

Mr. Nobody by damnitgreenberg

(4/4 I 30,035 I Mature)

Stiles is snatched from his college dorm room and forced to undergo a series of "hunts" to amuse his kidnapper--as prey, of course. Stiles gets free eventually and runs into Derek, who has been self-exiled in the same rural nature preserve after Laura's murder.

But because the kidnapper has played so many mind games with him, Stiles isn't a hundred percent sure Derek isn't the kidnapper and murderer himself. Realizing the danger Stiles is in, Derek commits himself to earning Stiles' trust... because getting Stiles into a cramped car with a maybe yes, maybe no serial killer is going to require a lot more than earnest promises from a stranger.

They get a lot closer than that.

Theomachy by germanfanfictioner

(8/? I 33,584 I Teen)

After the threats from the Darach and the Alpha pack, Stiles hopes for some quiet months. But soon a new danger will rise. A foe, who wants to destroy the Hale pack. And while Stiles tries to save the town, he has to deal with an emotionally awkward Derek.

A Life for a Life, Makes the Whole World Bound by augopher

(26/26 I 90,697 I Mature)

Stiles was lonely; there was no other way of putting it. The Nogitsune had left the pack a wary of him, not that they thought it had been his fault. No, they worried it would happen again. Once bitten, twice shy.The morning after his 18th birthday, his torso was covered in mysterious green tattoos. He hadn’t been that drunk. He'd definitely remember that. Great. Something else to make him feel like a freak. Insomnia led him to his mother’s diary and a tale of how she helped an odd man once who gave her the warning, “Be careful of your wishes three." Everything clicked into place.So...he was a djinni. He subtly changed things about himself. More muscle? Done. Better hair? Done and done. End his crippling insecurity? Done, done, done. He hid his new gift until he found himself bound to Derek.With Deaton’s help, they translated meanings in his tattoos, but they were incomplete. A passage of his 'Rules and Regulations' was missing. Everything was fine dandy until Stiles’ new powers and penchant for mischief and karmic retribution threatened to destroy him, fracture his mind, and turn him into something which couldn’t be contained.Could the pack save him in time, and at what price?

Not Your Typical Brand of Summer Activities by ColetheWolf

(23/23 I 105,189 I Mature)

Set directly after the events of season two, Stiles sets off to work with Derek and his pack in the quest to find both Erica and Boyd, who have been taken by the mysterious alpha pack. The only problem is that Stiles and Derek's individual conflicting personalities and opinions seem to clash more often than not. The question of being able to handle each other for the summer is a prevalent debate, but could their reluctant partnership evolve into something more?

Running Up That Hill by maypoison

(31/32 I 136,965 I Explicit)

“Even before the pack joined together, Scott was trying to protect you. And he still is trying to protect you, even if it means leaving you out of all this.”

Stiles does roll his eyes at that. “Yeah, but it didn’t work did it. I was still involved, and so was my Dad. We were nearly killed by Matt, and then Gerard.”

“My point is, people change. Relationships aren’t always perfect. Scott's tried to kill me before."

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "So, you’re saying that someone trying to kill you is just a small flaw in a relationship?"

“We’re werewolves.” Derek answers with a shrug, as if that was a perfectly good explanation

Doors Unlocked and Open by Imnotahero

(20/20 I 140,330 I Teen)

They say that when one door closes another one opens. That might be true elsewhere, but not in Beacon Hills. Danger lurks behind every door, and once they're ajar they stay like that - unlocked and open. Which is not good. Not at all. Stiles find things bad enough with Dread Doctors, Theo and his pack of Resurrected Chimeras, Lydia stuck in Eichen House and the foundation of his friendship with Scott unraveling fast. The surprising return of Derek might just be the counterbalance he needs. Especially if they could just close some of these damned doors...

[angstandhappiness]

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