#today has been! very very frustrating!!! i am sick of it!!!

[ekingston]

Hello! So sorry to bother, but have you had any updates on the Word-Stream/Speechify situation?

Just one: like I posted on Xitter and Bluesky last night, as of yesterday afternoon, the links to individual works as they were listed on WordStream are gone from both Google and Bing. Hurray, right? Surely we’re all sick of this whole debacle and there’s far more important things to worry about. If all is well that ends well, surely there’s no need to still be angry.

Well, I am. Here’s why:

When I checked on Wednesday, the links to my own work on WordStream were still listed. So rather than it taking a week after Cliff Weitzman first hid the fanwork from view, it took a little over a week from the moment he first promised privately that they would be deleted. Which, fine. Perhaps Cliff didn’t really know what he was talking about when he gave that timeframe. Or maybe he told a little white lie to create the impression that he always intended to do the right thing. It seems more likely to me, though, that Cliff still believed—even after the backlash he received—that he would get away with honoring only individual takedown requests. Or worse, that he needed just a little bit more time with the stolen material to figure out an alternative way to profit off it—preferably without us noticing, this time.

But who knows? I certainly don’t! All we can do is speculate, because publicly, Cliff Weitzman has remained completely silent on his copyright infringements. All we got was the initial justifications he and his sockpuppet accounts used in comments on the original Reddit and Tumblr posts. After those were so understandably ill-received, Cliff only ever communicated with a few individual authors who contacted him directly and repeatedly, blocking people who addressed the issue on Twitter and quietly distancing himself from WordStream by deleting a blog he’d posted to Speechify.com dated December 20th—where Cliff promoted WordStream’s platform specifically to fanfiction readers. (See my enormous timeline post for details and screenshots of said posts before they were taken down.)

And this is why I’m still angry: As long as Cliff Weitzman faces no real consequences for his actions, he won’t see a need to own up to his mistake; and as long as he’s able to delay taking responsibility, this isn’t over. This didn’t end well.

After all, wasn’t this the next-best scenario for Cliff, second only to him turning WordStream into a (for him) effortless, infinite money-making machine? He took something we provided for free and fed it to AI so he could more easily put it behind a paywall; we found out and protested; Cliff quietly erased all evidence of his crime; and we went—almost equally quietly—away.

I want to make sure you know that I continue to be genuinely amazed and intensely grateful for how quickly the news about WordStream’s copyright infringement was shared—and continues to be shared—throughout fandom, on tumblr in particular. If it hadn’t been for our collective outcry here and on Reddit, WordStream would very likely still be up in its original form, and Weitzman would be reaping the benefits (those subscription prices were steep) today.

But it’s been frustrating to see that, with the exception of mentions in articles on Substack and Fansplaining (the latter of which is a particularly awesome and thorough read on fandom’s decontextualization) and a Fanlore listing, our outrage never really spilled out beyond the safely insulated, out-of-the-way spaces that are tumblr, a handful of subreddits and bluesky. And I believe that—unfortunately—we are collectively responsible for that part, as well.

Most of us seemed content to only spread the word by circulating the same two posts on tumblr. (Have we all given up completely on every other social media platform? Am I the only remaining straggler?) And soon after Cliff Weitzman hid WordStream’s fanfiction category from view, our interest in the issue took a sharp dive even there. Are we genuinely deceived into believing the issue has been fully resolved? Do we truly fail to realize that Weitzman’s refusal to admit that what he did was wrong left the door wide open for the next greed-driven tech bro to wander through? Or is the true naivety in thinking that, as a community, we can keep this kind of attack on fandom from happening again? Has our disillusionment already gotten that bad?

However the situation spins out from here, Cliff’s actions will set a precedent. If we fail to show Cliff and his ilk that attempts to profit off fandom’s unpaid labor have consequences, their tech companies will keep trying until something eventually sticks. They might be a little smarter about it next time; obscure their sources a bit better, maybe leave the titles and the authors’ names off. Or maybe they’ll go a bolder route: maybe next time they cross the line they’ll do it boldly enough for IP holders to take notice and stop tolerating fanwork entirely.

Doesn’t that make you angry, too?

There’s this whole other mess of thoughts I would love to be able to untangle about how commercial influence is contributing to the steady erosion of fandom’s foundations, but I’m tired, and other people have said it all much more eloquently than I ever could. Seriously, go read that article on Fansplaining. Or listen to the podcast version of it. Better yet, as long as you’re wearing your noise-canceling headphones, go listen to a podfic of one of your favorite fandoms’ works, and enjoy the collaborative joy and creativity of the people who Cliff Weitzman refuses to believe exist. (In one of Speechify’s other blogs, Cliff claims there are only 272 podfics on AO3. Would you like to run that ChatGPT prompt again, Cliff?). Honestly, much like Cliff Weitzman’s infuriating denial of the fact that fandom fucking has this covered, thank you very much, there’s so. Many. More. Things for us to talk about. There’s the connotations of WordStream’s dubious ‘upload’ button, for instance, or the fact that the app scraped (and in some cases, allegedly, still lists) copyright-protected original fiction as well, or WordStream’s complete lack of contact information, which is illegal for an internationally operating app. And oh! Has anyone reported more thoroughly on Cliff’s app’s options to ‘simplify’ or ‘modernize’ uploaded works, or—my own very favorite abomination—to translate them into something Cliff calls ‘Gen-Z Language’? Much like his atrocious AI book covers, it would be hilarious, if it didn’t make steam come out of my ears.

Anyway, there it is. I highly recommend you do all of that. And then, if you aren’t familiar with it already, go do some research re: fair use and your rights as the copyright owner of your works. A good number of people commenting on this controversy expressed stunned surprise or fearful hesitation about claiming any sort of ownership of their fanfiction. The more informed we are about our rights, the more willing we will be to defend them.

Please don’t stop writing or sharing your work. If you can’t bring yourself to work on your WIPs today (trust me, I get it), post about this situation instead. Tweets, skeets, whateverthefucks—about WordStream’s theft, about how this reflects on Speechify’s already shady business practices, about how Cliff’s actions and justifications have personally affected you. You’re welcome to share or copy my posts on these platforms, but since Cliff already blocked me, I very much prefer you post your own. If you do, call Cliff Weitzman by his full name and tag or include both WordStream and Speechify to ensure Weitzman will recognize he has both a personal as well as a professional stake in handling the situation with integrity. Leave your concerns in reviews on the Speechify app. (We weren’t provided with a more appropriate place to put them, after all!) Consider calling for a Speechify boycott until Cliff accepts accountability for his actions.

Do avoid making exaggerated claims, and don’t call for physical retaliation against Cliff’s person or his property. We don’t want to give him or Speechify even the weakest of grounds to claim defamation or threats of violence. Focus on the facts: they’re incriminating enough by themselves. Show Cliff that we’re determined to keep bringing up his company’s wrongdoings in public spaces until he demonstrates that he understands why taking these freely shared fanworks and monetizing them was wrong, and takes steps to ensure it won’t happen again.

One last thing—and this is really more of a general reminder—please stop suggesting I handle this situation for you. People have come to me asking for action items. The resulting flashbacks to my days as an office assistant were extremely upsetting. In all seriousness, casting me as some sort of coordinator or driving force behind this backlash actively hurts the cause. Not only does it downplay fandom’s collective efforts, it also makes our message extremely vulnerable. It would be all too easy for Cliff to silence one singular source. Wikipedia will not maintain mentions of this controversy as long as it leads only to Easter Kingston’s attempt to summarize what happened as it was happening. You only know my name because I stumbled upon WordStream’s theft and decided to get my friends involved. I am not more knowledgeable, more skilled or more angrily invested in this issue than you are (or can, or should, be). I draw pictures and I write stories and I worry about the shift I’m seeing in fandom after having been on this ride for even a few pre-livejournal rounds.

I’m not going to stop doing any of those things. But I am going to allow myself to step away for a bit, make my wife dinner, and catch up on our shows.

I trust you’ve got it from here.

[catfishofoldin99colours]

SOBS I just want my computer to WORK

[littlestpersimmon]

Heya guys. Sorry for posting this for the billionth time. But maybe if you guys would like to give my posts about patreon a boost it would mean the world to me. I know I post this a lot and I don't take any help I receive for granted. I've only been able to make two new drawings since February. Bc every day I have been working almost 9 hours. I'm sick nearly every other week, my lymph nodes are swollen n I've been feeling incredibly depressed. I am from the global south, in the philippines, government help is near nonexistent. I am the sole caretaker of three disabled people. My mom can not do any housework, she is a full time wheelchair user, she needs care 24/7, insulin, adult diapers and kidneys that are under threat of failing if we don't watch her health, my dad has a chronic heart condition and my sister is autistic with a very low frustration threshold. Both my parents are diabetic, and I am the only person in my family who can work. I currently have three jobs, one in publishing, but I have a morality clause which means the publishing house can take back every single penny I make if I or the author fail to meet certain expectations. Anyway.. I have been working nonstop, my scoliosis is untreated and extremely painful, n for the past few four days I have been rationing a single can of spam and a few potatoes. Would mean the world to me if you guys could pick up a print, or subscribe to my patreon, or reblog any of my old art or send me a tip on ko-fi or anywhere else. Sorry and thank you again. I remake these a lot, but I sincerely don't take any of the help I receive for granted. Thank you again.

My inprnt

My patreon

https://www.patreon.com/littlestpersimmon

My tipping jars

[genderqueerdykes]

disabled intersex trans lesbian needs help paying for bills while sick with gallstones

hello, i'm equinox. i'm a mixed disabled intersex trans lesbian. i am dealing with gallstones, one of which is lodged in the neck of my gallbladder and causing immense pain and digestive issues. i'm struggling to keep down food, some days i can't at all. i am also dealing with an injury in my left wrist that makes it very difficult to use, flare ups from hypermobile ehlers-danlos syndrome and psoriatic arthritis. i am struggling with my health and am in need of help as working has become very difficult and i'm being urged to rest while i await my gallbladder removal surgery

today i was told that the surgeon i was referred to can't work on patients above a certain weight and that i would need another referral to a surgeon who is used to working with fat bodies. i already waited a month to see this person, now i have to wait again. i have bills to pay, and i'm struggling to make ends meet right now due to my low energy from dealing with my health as is

i have been bed bound lately and my body has been so exhausted to the point of nearly passing out in public several times. i have been so tired i have been falling asleep against my will. i struggle to cook some days due to being so exhausted. i'm behind on housework, and i need certain cleaning items. i'm struggling to eat regularly, as sometimes i can get sick and throw up for no reason at all.

i had 4 GI procedures this month, all of which were helpful and informative, but it's wearing on me. my mental health is very fragile at the moment as my care is being prolonged for no reason. i am frequently in tears due to how tired this has been making me. i am frustrated beyond belief because i just want to be able to eat normal meals again. i can barely eat. i can barely stay awake

i currently have to pay for my electric bill, and my internet bill:

if you are interested in helping me, you can do so in the following ways:

pay pal: glittergraphicnightmare @ gmail. com cash app: $glitterGraphix venmo: $Equinoxian chime: $Equinoxian

Click here for my eBay shop!

[sjywrites]

Hii can I request Sophia x reader academic rivals? 🥺 u can do whatever u want w the plot pretty much please and thank u so much <3 :)

༊*·˚ ACADEMIC RIVALS LOVERS?

𝓢ophia 𝓛aforteza x 𝓖n!reader. (no pronouns used). 𝓖enre. fluff, angst if you squint 𝓢ypnosis. our two favourite academic rivals have a lil fight, but the situation turns bad, and people realize their feelings. 𝓦𝓒 . 824 𝓒𝓦 . mentions of being hospitalised (sophia), a little angsty!

𝓝ote! this is a little messy since I wrote it during one of my breaks, but please lmk if you want like a part two cuz I really liked this plot!

---

This is purely fiction and is not meant to interpret how the idols act in real life!

,, not proofread + english is not my first language ! ೃ⁀➷

At this point it didn’t even matter if you were better than everyone, you just had to be better than her. It started off very simple, both of you wanted to be better than everyone, academically that is. Eagerly waiting to get tests back and see who got a higher score, a smug grin on one's face when they got a better result than the other. No harm in that right? Wrong, that’s what started all of this.

Sophia walked towards me with her head held high, her uniform as neat as ever and her hair styled in a way making her look almost angelic. Wait, what? “What were your results?” She said, slamming her paper on top of my desk, I shook out of my daydreaming to answer her. “96.” I said while looking down in my maths book, trying to solve an equation but still focusing on what she would respond. She looks away and a teasing smirk spreads on her lips, and moves the finger that covered her results, 97. “Guess I’m just better than you huh?” She said proudly, staring down at me “Just because you got one point more than me doesn’t mean you’re better than me.” I said, pouting a little at her accusation.

Lately I’ve been feeling kind of… weird? Even if Sophia gets a higher score than me, I can’t find it in me to give a fuck. “Well, you’ve been slacking off a lot lately, I’ve gotten higher scores than you on the last four tests. So, I think that makes it obvious who's smarter!” Sophia states like it was the most obvious answer to what I said. Staring at her for a moment, I reply. “I've been busy okay, not everyone has that much free time to spend on studying, and you're talented in general, no wonder you get high scores” She looks shocked at my statement, then she smirks a little, “Did you just admit that I'm smart?” She looked proud in some way or another, “Not what I meant Sophia, but whatever floats your boat.” I grab my things from the desk and walk outside the classroom to my locker, a little frustrated at the whole situation. I did miss her response,

“I study that much so you won't think I'm stupid.”

A week goes by, no Sophia in sight. She missed two assignments, she's usually here every day. Even if she's sick, which I don't get why she does, but still. Did something happen to her? Was it something I did?

“You've been zoning out for the past like, three periods, what is going on with you today?” Lara, my best friend asks. “Do you know where Sophia is?” I ask, not really thinking before I ask. “Why do you want to know, don't you guys like, hate each other?” She looks at me with a very questionable look, suspecting something I cannot grasp, “Yes? No? I don't know Lara, but do you know where she is?” I say, a little confused and concerned. She looks at me with sad eyes before replying, “Y/N, Sophia got really sick out of nowhere, I heard she's at the hospital.” My eyes blew wide at the shocking news, why didn't she tell me? No, why would she do that? We're not even friends.

—

Am I really doing this? I think to myself as I open the hospital doors and stumble up to the kind-looking man in the lobby. I strike up a casual conversation with him as he guides me to a room, I thank him quickly before he scurries away.

There in the little window on the door I see her, Sophia's sitting down on the bed. Her hair is a mess and her clothes look ridiculous, it looks like she hasn't slept for a few days too. I gently open the door and her gaze falls upon me, it's easier to see her face now. She looks tired, really tired. “Hey…” I say, she looks away from me and cuddles up in her sitting position. “What are you doing here?” she tries to sound annoyed, but it just comes out in a tired huff. “I heard what happened, I… was worried about you. I brought some notes from the classes you missed.” She looks shocked at my confession, she relaxes her posture and her gaze becomes soft. “Thank you… I really appreciate it.” She smiles a little as she grabs the papers I handed her, our hands touching softly.

I look at her, really look at her. For the first time actually having time to admire how pretty she looks, how perfect her flaws are. “I just came to give you that… so if you don't need anything else, I'll go.” I turn around to walk away, grabbing the door knob and turning it around, “Wait! Will you… please stay with me a little longer, I need it.

I need you.”

this is so messy I'm sorrrrryyyy!! I wanted to post something today at least :((

[fayes-fics]

Refuge

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (throuple)

Summary: Fluff fic. The boys tend to you when you are sick.

Warnings: none... this is just sick/comfort and fluff.

Word Count: 1.1k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. Anon request fill (see HERE) requesting a fluffy comfort fic with the Bridgerton brothers. This isn't set in the Lessons-verse, but is a similar set-up, where the reader is in an established throuple with A & B and lives with them at Aubrey Hall. Nonny, I hope this fits your wishes. Enjoy! <3

A bed is only a refuge when it's by choice.

That's the thought preoccupying your melancholic mind as you sit in bed, propped against a mass of pillows, staring out the window across the sun-drenched fields of Aubrey Hall. Wishing you could be outside, enjoying the sun's rays on your skin. Instead, you are stuck inside, boredom reaching new heights as you contemplate restarting a book for the third time. 

For the past two days, a stomach complaint has left you feeling weak and without an appetite, but also frustratingly unable to sleep, seemingly worse at night. Also, you never sleep well when separated from your loves—it is all a recipe for a maudlin mood. The doctor does not think it is contagious but recommended bed rest and a foul-tasting tincture you must drink twice daily. The Bridgerton boys are coming back from business in London today, and usually, that would signify a wondrous, sensual reunion, but your traitorous body has decided otherwise.

Just as you are sullenly picking up the book you completed that morning, there is a soft knock at your door.

“Come in,” you call, defeated, expecting it to be someone bringing you more disgusting medicine.

“Darling, we are home! My valet informs me you are sick. Why did you not send word to London? We could have cut short our business,” Anthony’s worried tone seems to inhabit his whole frame as he strides in and makes a beeline for you.

“Are you alright?” Benedict adds, appearing behind him, his face also a picture of concern, rounding the other side of the bed.

The wondrous sight of them tips you over the edge. A bloom of pleasure mixed with frustration that your reunion cannot be in the manner you would like. It breaks the dam of emotions you have been keeping at bay, all bubbling over into tears. 

“Oh my love, no, please do not cry!” Benedict implores and softly takes a seat on the edge of the bed, taking your hand.

Anthony hovers, worry etched into his face but seemingly unsure what to do. Benedict frowns at him and signals for him to sit on the bed, which he does after a pause, taking your other hand.

“I've missed you both so very much,” you snuffle between tears, your gaze pinging between them. “I am just so sorry to disappoint you - I am not in a fit state to celebrate as we usually would,” you offer quietly, feeling guilty and biting your lip.

“You could never disappoint us,” Anthony avows sincerely, squeezing your hand reassuringly.

“We have missed you too, my love,” Benedict strokes your cheek delicately with his free hand, swiping a tear that falls with his thumb. “But please, you are obviously sick; we only care about you getting better.”

“Yes,” Anthony nods brusquely, “what can we do to alleviate your suffering? Open a window? Or is the room too cold? Perhaps a fire? Do you need more pillows? Or less? Perhaps some more tea?”

A glow behind your ribs flares at their loving concern in their unique ways—Anthony trying to solve the problem, Benedict offering sympathy. It is just so them.

“I would perhaps enjoy new reading material,” you confess quietly. “I have read all the books here in this room at least twice over now,” you admit sheepishly.

“I will have the staff move my entire library up here this afternoon,” Anthony declares solemnly, a hand over his heart.

“No, no, please, just a few books will be more than fine,” you assure with a feeble giggle, more tears welling at his outsized gesture.

“I think what she most needs from us, brother, is us,” Benedict assesses, lowering himself to buss a kiss on your forehead—always the one to intuit your emotional needs more than you can yourself.

“Yes, please,” you whisper, almost ashamed of your yearning to just be held by them, your weakened state making you feel fragile and in need of strong arms holding you close.

Anthony instantly pulls at his boots and then swings himself around until he can lie next to you. “Of course, how did I not see that?” he chastises himself, his lips running a soothing line over your right temple.

Benedict also takes off his boots and does the same, and a feeling like warmed honey spreads behind your ribs as they each wrap an arm around your middle, snuggling into your neck and face. 

“Thank you so much,” you murmur, your tears drying with their comforting presence.

“No more tears now,” Anthony lectures, but with a gentle sweetness that is him willing you to feel contentment. “We are here to do everything in our power to ensure you are all better soon.”

“Indeed,” Benedict confirms.

“Could you possibly get under the covers with me?” your ask is timid.

“Oh, of course!” both exclaim and stand up just long enough to shuck their jackets and waistcoats, pull back the bedding and slide in next to you. The heat of their bodies is an instant balm, seeping through their shirts through the thin cotton of your nightgown.

“Darling, your body is cold!” Anthony exclaims anxiously as his hand slides over your belly.

“I have not been able to keep food down, so I am always cold,” you admit. “All I can handle is weak, cooled tea.”

“My poor love,” Benedict sighs into your hairline. He runs gentle kisses over your cheek. “Then we will just have to stay here and keep you warm now, won't we?” 

“That would be truly wonderful,” you sigh, closing your eyes, feeling a bone-deep relief to be back in their joint, loving embrace. Something feels missing when they must both be gone. One is bearable; both being gone makes you ache for them. “Thank you, my loves,” you murmur as you feel the pull of sleep finally taking you.

The boys share a knowing silent glance - all other things they may have to attend to can wait; paramount is you and your recovery - before settling into the pillows next to you. Their legs entwining with yours, their arms holding you, their solid bodies bracketing yours. 

You sleep peacefully for the first time in days and awaken around dawn to beautiful birdsong, surrounded by Anthony and Benedict, their breath skittering over your skin in repose. During the night, your hands have ended up laced together. You feel warm for the first time this week, and your stomach rumbles, the urge to eat raring for the first time in days. It feels like you have turned a corner, although your desire to leave the bed is close to zero, snuggling down into them both - your wonderful boys.

A bed is only a refuge when it's by choice indeed.

Both Anthony & Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @sya-skies

[hmhas-00]

Ch.1

Hit Me Hard & Soft

word count - 1.7k words

A/N - Hi lovelies! I can’t wait for you to fall in love with Remy and Billie, and their ✨friendship✨

Chapter 2 will be up tomorrow! Starting next week, my posting schedule will be Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Please like and reblog! It means a lot! 🫶🏻

Remy's POV

My hand shot back as the hot, white-coated metal of the car door burned my fingertips.

“Motherfu-“ Immediately, my watery eyes landed on the yellow paper folded under the windshield wipers.

“You have to be kidding me right now.” Unfolding it, the paper revealed a dreaded parking ticket. Crumpling the paper into my back pocket, I swung open the door. Plopping onto the hot leather seat and ignoring the 3rd degree burns going into the backs of my thighs, my phone slid into the crack between the center console. As if on purpose, my phone began to ring nonstop. A huge sigh escaped my lips, while I started the engine to at least get some A/C. When the bluetooth connected to the car, I answered the call using the hands-free feature. Thank the gods for technology.

“Hey, Bills- Right now is not a-“ I groaned, fighting for my life to rescue my phone from the french fry abyss that it had fallen in.

“Remy! Where are you?” Billie exaggerated in a playful, but very loud voice. Maybe it was the stereo volume, though…

“I’m sorta in the middle of- HA! Got it!” I shrieked, putting the phone in the cupholder.

Billie whined, “I thought you were coming tonight. I don’t want to go alone! I’ve been really nervous and-“

Immediately, I realized I had promised my best friend I’d go the live recording of The Late Show With Steven Colbert. Mouthing expletives I yanked the stupid seatbelt, attempting to secure it multiple times.

“Oh my fucking god. I’m so sorry! I didn’t exactly forget. It’s just- I’ve had the shittiest day. I was humiliated at work today, got a parking ticket-“

“Oh, shit. Remy, hey- No, I’m sorry! Fuck, start from the beginning, what happened?” Billie worried, putting her disappointment aside. “Please, don’t worry about tonight, I’ll come over right after and we can talk more if you want?”

I hurried out of the parking space, not bothering to look before putting the car in reverse. “No, no! I’ll be on the way right now. It’s fine, it’s just been a crazy day. A lot at once. I’m on the way though!”

“You sure?” Billie cooed. “Are you sure you’re okay to be driving right now?”

“Yeah, yeah! I’m good.” Tears brimmed my eyes. Not tears of sadness, but instead frustration. Everything that could possibly go wrong was going wrong, and had been for at least a week. Still, I felt awful for forgetting about our plans. She’d been talking about how nervous she is about her first live performance since her new album, HMHAS, came out on Friday.

“Okay… Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had such a hard day today. Tell me everything.” She comforted me, always knowing what to say and how to say it.

I began to tell her all about my stressful day at work, and how my boss crossed several professional boundaries.

Earlier that day I presented my ideas to the potential new column writers for our magazine, while my chauvinist pig of a boss dismissed my efforts, and mansplained almost every point I made. After the board meeting I made the mistake of interrupting his debriefing with the rest of the team in his office and told him that I’d really like another chance to speak to the writers. “You were there because I allowed it. If you’d like another chance with those guys, consider wearing something worth their while.” He sneered and waved me out of his office. It brought me back to earth, making it evident that I am nothing but a secretary. As I opened the door to leave, he told me to go home for the day. I didn’t know if this meant I was fired, or if he was just sick of seeing my face. Regardless, it made me want to crawl into a hole and never go back.

“You realize he basically implied that unless you show some cleavage, no one will listen to you, right?” Billie protested, appalled at my story of the day. She had listened to countless rants about my job, never understanding why I stick around.

The truth is, this was my in! This is the environment I had studied so hard to be around and paid thousands of dollars for. Well, not quite. But it was my in. I believed I could make it through and work my way up to the top of the chain, hopefully enough to fire the assholes that run the magazine. Or at least be an editor.

“Anyway, so then I went out to my car and found the ticket after burning my hands, then burned my legs, then my phone fell under my seat, and here we are. Now, I’m going to drive off the PCH, if you don’t mind.”

“Not before I see you today. I’ll make it better…” she promised, knowing she always did. “…I’m not gonna say it.”

“Good”

“Quit already.”

“Billie…” I insisted.

“Okay, okay. Just saying. Don’t change. Keep being your bold self. Someone will appreciate it.”

“Thank you.”

“Someone at a different company because they don’t deserve you! They-“ she protested, starting her speech.

“Billie!” I whined. I honestly didn’t want to hear it. I just wanted to forget. “I’m pulling up right now, I’ll see you inside okay?”

“This isn’t over!” She shouted into the phone, still amped up.

I hung up and rolled the window down, showing my ID to the guard at the front gate. He smiled at me and nodded as the beautiful golden gates began to open inward into the giant property. I drove my car down the long road to Billie’s house and parked my car where I usually did. Security led me in and I was greeted with the warmest hug on planet earth.

Billie wrapped her arms around me, radiating with tenderness and comfort, amidst her own anxiety for what was to come tonight. “Are you ready for tonight?” My voice muffled into her dark hair.

She smelled sweet and when we pulled away I took in her shining face and very minimal makeup. Basically, just aquafor on her lips, clear mascara and brow gel, and a bit of concealer and powder where she thought she needed it. Although, she really didn’t need any. She had glasses on, and her outfit for the show, which she had thrifted herself.

“Mm, noo.” She shook her head and spoke in her silly voice. She ticked a bit, tilting her head to the side a few times. She had been ticking a lot lately, at least for the last few weeks leading up to the album release, the big album listening events, and now the Late Show.

I rubbed her temples and smiled, while she closed her eyes trying to focus. “You’re gonna be incredible. I can’t wait to hear you.” Her left eyebrow twitched a bit, then stopped.

“Let me fix my makeup. Is what I’m wearing okay?” I asked, walking towards the stairs.

“For me it is…but for your boss?” She joked, sorta.

“Billie!” I ran up the stairs, leaving her behind. “I’m raiding your closet!”

She followed and plopped on her bed, watching me walk through her giant bathroom, and into her giant walk-in closet.

I picked out something cute and put on a fashion show for her. She puckered her lips and raised her brows at me, showing her approval on the outfit. “You’re not supposed to look better than me at my own show, dude!” She shifted on the bed, placing one hand under her head, and fixing her baggy jeans.

“Shut up.” I laughed under my breath and plopped on the bed next to her. “Fuck, it’s been a day.”

She turned her head slightly to look at me. “You know I’m so proud of you, right? I want you to be happy. Whatever that means for you, I just want that.”

I nodded, knowing she just wants what’s best for me. We shared the same thought. “I love you.” I turned my body towards her, seeing her tick, rolling her eyes to the left a few times. “Enough about me. Tonight’s gonna be so fun, and you’re going to sound amazing, and then we can come back here and eat all the food.”

“Actually, I was gonna tell you, but your day was ruined by Danny Devito’s cousin.” Billie snorted. I smacked her tummy. “There’s this afterparty they’re throwing for Finneas and I, and I wanted you to come with me. But if you’re not in the mood, I’m totally down to just eat all the food with you here.”

“Nah, I’m down. It’ll be fun! I wanna forget about it all anyways.” I held out my fist and she bumped it with her hand.

“I’m not gonna drink at all so you can go crazy, go stupid.” She nodded.

“You never drink anyways.” I rolled my eyes.

Billie stared at me with her big, blues which were more of a gray hue at the moment. She seemed to have zoned out in thought. I slightly furrowed my brows and smiled at her. A few seconds later she opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted by her phone ringing.

She put the phone to her ear. “Hey, whats up?”

I fidgeted with my top while she spoke on the phone, shaking the feeling that something was up. It might just be her nerves, but it also could be me overanalyzing and overthinking it. For weeks she’d been the most anxious and worried I had seen her in a while. This was the most vulnerable I ever heard her on an album, so I knew it was a relief when people adored it on release day. I worried about her a lot lately. Late nights, panic attacks, bad dreams, and lots of work planning out the upcoming tour… It wasn’t a shock knowing she barely slept.

“Everything okay?” I asked as she finished her call.

“They canceled today’s appearance for some reason, but they’ll probably reschedule it for next week. Now I get to be nervous longer.” She put a thumbs up in the air.

“It’s the universe. She wants us to sit here, watch movies, and eat all the food.” I sat up to change out of these clothes.

“Must be.” Billie hummed. She watched me take off my impromptu outfit, and threw some sweats and a shirt she had left on her bed from earlier. “I’ll order something.”

[beanghostprincess]

Rayleigh and Buggy reunion, but Rayleigh is being over the top judgemental about everything, like idk if u are familiar with crazy ex girlfriend the TV show but Rayleigh shows up and acts exactly like Rebecca's mom does. Overcritical of his life choices and dismissive of what he perceives as excuses coming from Buggy, because he knows Buggy's true potential and is annoyed with Buggy not living up to it. He gives Crocodile a once over and goes "is that what you found to replace Shanks with" and moves on and Crocodile doesn't even have a moment to compute the way he was just insulted because Rayleigh has moved on to criticising Mihawk's cooking instead. Worst part is, this all comes from a genuine place of love and care, Rayleigh is legitimately worried sick about his baby clown son of 39 years, but he cannot express that worry without being extremely invasive about everything. Buggy isn't even responding, he just shoots ppl apologetic looks and rolls his eyes when Rayleigh isn't looking because of course he does this obviously Buggy is never good enough for him and Shanks had always been the favourite (you ask Shanks or any other Roger pirate and they will tell you that Buggy is Rayleigh's baby boy and absolute favourite with utmost confidence, too bad the emotional constipation runs in the crew). Dinner is awkward as fuck, because Rayleigh makes attempts at being easygoing but his motherhenning nature irt Buggy shines through, his conviction that Buggy would be happier with Shanks by his side is making him be overcritical of everyone in that dinner and he keeps discussing the good old days and subtly hinting at Buggy that there is still time for him to go back to Shanks....and Buggy looks close to frustrated tears (and everyone agrees, Crocodile has snapped 5 cigars in half with his teeth and Mihawk is 5 seconds away from banging his head on the table).

Just overbearing father Rayleigh being stifling and trying to overcompensate for his shit parenting choices during Buggy's childhood and Buggy having his daddy issues expanded upon (and Crocodile and Mihawk gaining insight to Buggy's entire deal)

"Idk if u are familiar with crazy ex girlfriend the TV sho-" My therapist literally told me to stop watching it so much because it was affecting my mental health. So. Yes. I know the show. It's one of my favorite shows EVER. Rebecca is just like me fr my beloved. All of them my beloveds. The songs my beloveds. Don't make me go into CEG x OP because I won't finish. And as you can see, I did not listen to my therapist.

Even though I've always seen Rayleigh as the one who understands Buggy the most (Roger and him love Shanks and Buggy equally but it is quite obvious they put more pressure on Shanks to be more like Roger and that only made things worse by making Buggy's inferiority complex exist) and the one who stands up more for him and comforts him when needed, it is true that he might be more judgemental and he'd be worried for Buggy. Like. Think about it. Roger died and the kids (their kids) ended up alone and going their own separate ways. For Rayleigh, finding out Shanks and Buggy aren't together is just?? So weird?? Because they've always been together. Birds of a feather (if somebody mentions the song 'Two Birds' I am punching them because I can't handle that song today please). And it's just... Well, surprising. 'But as long as they're okay' but they're obviously not okay!!! And it's not that Rayleigh is judging Buggy. In fact, I think he would do the same with Shanks. The second Rayleigh sees Shanks he's already saying he drinks too much (even for a pirate) and that he's been acting recklessly and "What the fuck are you doing without Buggy? Is this because of Buggy?" / "I do not drink because of him. It's- It's not about him. He left-" / "HE LEFT AND YOU DIDN'T DO ANYTHING?????" / "I hate it when you get like this" / "Like what?" / "Like you want to still do something about my life. I'm an adult, thank you very much-" / "No, you're not if you keep acting this way". And I personally think Rayleigh would just be worried for the both of them and also feel extremely guilty because he wasn't there to fix things when they fought, the way he always did. "The second I left you alone you two start a fight that lasts two decades?" and he would say this to both of them and they would hate it.

But yeah, going back to Buggy I think he'd be worried because. Well. Have you seen Crocodile and Mihawk? I mean. They're kind of on good terms with Buggy now (more or... More or less. Kind of. They're not equals but they're some sort of weird thing and they respect and care for each other. More or less. It's- It's complicated. Don't ask) but they're still them. And Rayleigh can't help but see the situation and be like "I'm proud you made a name of yourself, kid, but you don't have to do this if you don't want to" (meaning: You could go back to Shanks any time you wanted) and Buggy takes it as an "You could go back to Shanks any time you wanted because you'd be safer with him" instead of the real "You could go back to Shanks any time you wanted because you'd be happier with him and this war of pride and hearts you have going on is dumb". And he understands Buggy needs to be away from Shanks to grow, but it's just so, so sad to see them like this when they used to love each other so damn much.

Also, I think Buggy would be going through the worst moment of his life and Crocodile and Mihawk would be so done for different reasons. First, they don't give a fuck about all of this drama. And second, they are starting to see Buggy more like a person and understand why he is the way he is, and the things Rayleigh is saying are bothering them a lot. They've been trying to make the clown move on from his past so he's useful for once (because when he believes in himself he's actually not a burden and more interesting) and now this guy (that they respect because it's Silvers Fucking Rayleigh) comes and tries to change things around here? Nope. Not happening.

So basically, what you're trying to tell me is that Rayleigh regrets raising the boys that way and now he's overcompensating and it's overwhelming for everyone, right? I- I love it. Great plot. 10/10. In character. Perfect. It makes me go insane. I love their daddy issues.

(Also, can we talk about how "This Was a Shit Show" and "What'll it be" are extremely Buggy songs??? Because- Because now I want to-)

[sometimesanalice]

oooo okay i have a prompt 💁🏼‍♀️ for the au version of bradley and sweet girl (and the little nugget!):

❝  well,  i do feel a little better now that you’re here.  ❞

Jordan! You know how soft I am about them! (in every universe, but especially that one!) I hope you like this! 🫶🏼

You will never not be happy to see Bradley Bradshaw, but seeing him walk though the open door of the in-progress nursery might be the best thing that's happened to you all day.

It's not even the large styrofoam cup you spy in his hand from your favorite milkshake spot, it's just him.

"You look nice," you sniffle from where you're seated on the floor, screws scattered around you like confetti.

"And you look stuck," he says gently, giving you a soft smile. Setting the cup on top of the dresser he'd built for you a few weeks ago. "Need a hand, kid?"

You nod, sure that you look more than a little pitiful right now.

Bradley has to press his lips together to keep from chuckling at just how adorably dejected you look, sitting there with your large bump and splayed legs.

All you'd wanted was to get the crib you'd ordered put together. You were in your third trimester and feeling more than a little useless in your own body. You'd just wanted to prove to yourself that you were still capable of doing things on your own.

And it had been going fine, until you'd accidentally dropped the open bag of screws on the floor. Too many to squat and pick up, you'd carefully lowered yourself down, only to realize you couldn't get yourself back up on your own.

You'd given up after your fifth attempt, teary and frustrated, and called Rooster.

He reaches down with his strong, sure hands to help you up off the ground. Pulling you up so easily, like it's nothing, that you're reminded all over again just how pathetic you've been feeling lately.

"You smell nice too," you say glumly, realizing you haven't showered yet today, as he helps steady you back on your own two feet.

"Stop you're going to make me blush."

"I thought the morning sickness was supposed to go away," you sigh. "But that guy from accounting dropped by my office earlier today, the one I told you about with the bad cologne, and I was nauseous the rest of the day."

His warm, brown eyes remind you of home. And as tough as it had been to uproot your life, it had been worth it to be closer to your best friend and favorite person. You've only been here for a few months, but you already loved San Diego.

Rooster makes a sympathetic sound. "He's the worst."

"He really is. He's also a mansplainer, so that's two strikes against him." You look at Bradley, looking very handsome in the knit polo he was wearing, and feel even more like a wreck in your very oversized tshirt, the hem of your stretchy shorts just barely peeking out from underneath it. "But you didn’t answer, why are you all gussied up?"

He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes darting away from you. "I was, uh, on a date with someone Nat knows from her kickboxing classes."

"Oh. Oh no, Rooster. I'm so sorry." More tears flooding your eyes at the guilt of ruining his night. You thought you'd already cried them all out before he'd got there, but apparently you still had more left in you.

Bradley's stomach twists at the sight of your lower lip wobbling, kicking himself for not bending the truth because the last thing he wanted to do was make you feel bad.

"Hey now, woah," he says, cupping your face. "None of that, kid. You rescued me from an awkward date with a woman who was still very clearly hung up on her ex."

"Still, I really am sorry. I don't want my mess to become yours."

He gives you a look you don't know what to make of. "Why didn't you wait for me, kid. I told you I'd swing by this weekend to help with all of this."

Bradley had kept his weekend free for you, not that you'd asked him too. He knew you were stressed about wanting to get the nursery in order, one less thing for you to think about. He was excited to see it come together, was looking forward to hanging up that little felt seagull mobile he'd bought for you as a baby shower gift.

At that godawful dinner, he'd nearly shot out of his chair at the watery warble of your voice, concerned that something had happened to you or the baby. He was more than happy to help, he wanted you to lean on him for these things. You chose to have the baby on your own, without your shitty ex, but that didn't mean you were going to be doing it alone.

"I thought I could handle it. It's just some prefab wood and shit," you huff with agitation. "I wanted to feel useful. But then I dropped the bag of screws and well..." You trial off and just gesture to the spot he'd found you, you'd left the screws on the floor out of spite.

You're just so tired. All the time. Tired and overwhelmed.

The tears fall on their own again, a mix of hormones and emotions. "Bradley, what was I thinking? I'm going to be a mom. This little person is going to depend on me and I couldn't even get off the floor." You're embarrassed when your voice cracks.

"Come here," Bradley murmurs, tugging you to his chest. He holds you as tight as he thinks he can without squishing the baby. The firm, rounded swell of your stomach pressing against his flat one.

You tuck your face into the space at the base of his neck. His woodsy smell more soothing than lavender could ever be.

Rooster runs his hand up and down your back. "You're growing a whole person in there. You need to yourself some slack. You aren't a mess. And that little peanut is going to be so lucky to have you."

You squeeze your eyes tight and nod. Trying to remind yourself that it's ok to be scared, because you also were excited. Excited to meet her, excited to be able to finally hold her, excited to introduce her to your best friend.

You feel your little girl shift and move inside of you. You pull away taking Bradley's hand in yours and setting it over where she's pressing against you, "I think she's happy you're here."

It's something that he doesn't think he'll ever get use to.

"'Course she is," he rasps thickly. "I'm going to be her favorite." He's still holding your hand, not ready to let go. "And you? How do you feel, kid?"

"Well, I do feel a little better now that you’re here too," you tell him, before giving him the first real smile that he's seen from you all night. "Especially since you brought me a milkshake."

He laughs and kisses the side of your head before letting you.

"Who knew you were such an easy girl to please."

You flip him off without heat, as he thumbs off the remainders of the wet tear tracks on your cheeks.

"Thank you, Rooster."

"You know I'm alway here for you," he says, squeezing your shoulder as he goes to fetch your treat.

Once he gets you set up in the oversized chair with your milkshake, he tosses you his phone and puts you on DJ duty while he works on assembling the deep brown wood spindle crib that you'd picked out.

You watch as Bradley double checks each step in the instruction booklet before he moves on to the next one. It's the most studious you've ever seen him, his tongue peeking out every now in then in concentration. The way he takes his time building the crib for your little girl, makes your chest feel warm.

You're both so lucky to have him.

Every now and then he looks over at you as he fits the pieces together. It makes his heart twinge in an unexpected way when he sees you running your hand over your belly, looking down at it with the softest of smiles on your face.

You're going to be such a good mom, he thinks to himself. And he'll be there right by your side. The best Uncle Rooster he can be.

For her, for you.

After all, you've always been his family.

[theillusionofpants]

I never really had pets growing up. My mom lived on a farm when she was younger and I think she was fully saturated by the time I came around.

So when my (now) wife and I moved in together and she wanted animals, I was sceptical. She is much smarter than I am and managed to trick my dumb ass into just "going and checking out what is available" at the shelter. Low and behold, I found an adorable orange kitty as dumb as I am who booped me on the nose and I was in love. We dubbed him "Ernie" and adopted his brother "Bert" as well. They were....they were cats. They were annoying and hilarious and frustrating and were normal cats that did all the regular cat things that every person who has lived with a cat for the last 5000 years has dealt with. They moved with us and were a part of the family.

Ernie and I were lovers. He would post up in my lap and flop over and expect his luxuriously soft belly to be rubbed and I would reply. He wouldn't bite or attack, he just wanted some good scritches. We'd hang out and watch TV that way. When I was too busy to hang out, he would grumble like an old man all around the house, complaining.

The problem is that cats get sick. I remember one morning before work Ernie was having trouble keeping his head up. He normally wanted affection ALL the time, but this particular morning whenever I would try to pick him up, he would jump out of my arms and sit on the floor panting. For those of you who don't know or who have only had dogs, panting is a VERY bad sign in a cat. The majority of the time it means you need to seek medical attention right away. That's what we ended up doing and unfortunately in this scenario, it meant that we had to put him down.

It was a very strange experience as one who has never really had a pet. It is very quick but there is a definite moment where the light that was once your buddy is no longer in their eyes. Eventually you are just in a room with a dead animal and a stranger who is trying to ignore the fact that you're a blubbering mess. And you leave your friend there.

I was shocked how much of a mess I was. I couldn't even talk about him for months without tearing up. How stupid it is to have pets! They make you love them, integrate themselves into your life and your family, and then they leave you.

Anyway, it has been 6 years now since he's died. He was only 8 when he got sick. I guess I just miss my cat today.

The man himself

[glitterypin]

I wonder how Armando Iannucci feels about Malcolm Tucker being a comfort character for some people (like myself).

Like, I get the whole "you weren't supposed to like him" thing and "Peter Capaldi did such a good job that people wanted to see more of him" but I'm not just talking about Malcolm Tucker being liked or enjoyed, I'm talking specifically about him being a comfort character, as is defined below:

This is kind of the opposite of the intent here, isn't it? Malcolm Tucker is so evil, toxic and potentially violent that seeing him should make the audience recoil. His mere presence should make you feel stressed, when he suddenly shows up your brain should go "oh shit".

And yet, here I am, two days sick, burning up with fever, feeling like a train running me over might be considered an improvement on my physical and mental state at this point and all I can find comfort in is cutting up my favourite Malcolm Tucker lines from the entire show together - for no reason except that seeing him makes me feel calm and collected.

I haven't managed to decipher what it is about Malcolm that brings me comfort. I don't think it's just because he has Peter Capaldi's face. There are other characters Capaldi has played that I disliked immensely and even if I leave those aside, it wouldn't explain why Malcolm is more of a comfort character for me than even the Doctor is (honestly, I'm not lying).

It might partly be the swearing, I think I find great enjoyment in the wittiness and the creativity of the swearing, as a person who also swears a lot and considers it a form of strong expression. It might be that his anger and toxicity are so overblown, so extravagant, that I can't actually take them seriously. Like Malcolm breaking into a sweary rant feels akin to someone breaking into song in a musical. You just sit back and enjoy it aesthetically.

It might even be that he embodies a certain inevitability of things going to shit. Armando Iannucci said something along the lines of "in every episode, something goes a bit wrong and then Malcolm shows up and makes it even worse". That's very accurate! NOTHING goes right in that show. For four seasons and two specials it's just disaster after disaster in which "success" is usually just "the minister wasn't fired today" and Malcolm is often at the center of it all, making everyone miserable and everything ten times worse.

He's the opposite of a comfort character, really. A comfort character shows up and makes you feel that "it's going to be alright". For example, the Doctor is a good comfort character, because nine times out of ten, he beats the monsters and keeps everyone safe. Malcolm shows up, you know nothing is going to be alright and it's probably going to be a lot worse than has been implied so far - and that can be comforting, too, because it's not about the outcome being good or bad, it's about it being predictable. And, as I grow older, I find myself enjoying a predictably shitty outcome, because life does actually suck so, so bad sometimes and I can't always be confronted by narratives in which things end well, they often exhaust me. Sometimes, I just want to see things go to shit, I want to experience second hand anger and frustration, I want to look at a catastrophe in the eye and laugh about it.

I'm not sure I've got it, to be honest, I think there's more to why I like Malcolm so much and why the more he shouts and screams the more I feel a calmness washing over me. My own anger issues probably have something to do with it. I don't know. I'll keep thinking about it.

[aritsukemo]

Sick Day Chronicle | Illness Unease | Yuichiro Tokito

Summary: Sick days are the worst, but at least you get the pleasure of having your partner take time out of their otherwise busy schedule to take care of you! <3

Warnings: None.

A/N: Okay, I know I have a lot of request that I should be working on and I'm sorry to everyone who's requested something and has seen no result from me, but I actually have an excuse right now! ...That excuse being that my entire family, including me, is very, very sick. That being said, take this purely indulgent fic series that I may or may not complete in the meantime! :D

Day One: Yuichiro Tokito | Day Two: Shinobu Kocho | Day Three: Muichiro Tokito | Day Four: Tanjiro Kamado | Day Five: Aoi Kanzaki

"You should rest," The words were as funny to hear from you as they were frustrating. You're telling him to rest? You're telling him to rest when you're the one who needs it the most? When you're the one bedridden with a fever of nearly a hundred and two degrees?

"I'm fine," The words leave his lips in a soft hush—words which were once pointed, and yet lost it's edge as they slide against his tongue and out his mouth. That happens a lot when he speaks to you. Even when you're being the most annoying person ever, he just can't use that harsh tone he uses with everyone else..

Guess that's what love does to a person—especially one as madly in love as Yuichiro..

"You haven't slept since you found out I fell ill. At this rate, you'll pass out.." You remind, face scrunching up before immediately relaxing as a cool weight envelopes your forehead.

"You should worry about yourself," He says, but again, his words were as soft as the pillow you were laying your head on. He couldn't even muster that terrifyingly stern tone of his that Shinobu always scolds him for using with patients. That stern tone that—unlike his mentor-slash-boss, who's stern voice is doused in honeyed care and the warmth of a mother's concern—is nothing short of disgruntled and downright condescending, making whoever he's talking to want to bow their head to the ground and apologize for ever wasting his time by doing something as idiotic as getting themselves injured.

You're glad, ecstatic even to have such a privilege. After all, Yuichiro can be plenty ruthless when he wants to be and you've heard his scoldings are the absolute worst. To deal with that and all these symptoms you're forced to put up with would be torture..

"I am, but I'm also worried about you," You confess, "You're slowly running yourself into the ground. Everyone sees it, that's why Ms. Kocho and Aoi offered to take your usual duties off your hands today. They want you to rest."

Your words fall upon purposefully deafened ears and Yuichiro goes about stripping you of the towel that was keeping you somewhat cool despite just laying it across your forehead—swiftly going about the process of dunking it in the bucket of icy water next to your bed and wringing the excess water out of it.

He brings it to your head again, but this time, as he lays it across your skin, you reach up and grab his wrist. He resists, attempting to pull away only to fail miserably to which he huffs. Even weakened by sickness, you were still leagues stronger than him..damnit.

"Yuichiro, please listen to me," You said, sliding your hand down his wrist and then intertwining his cold hands with your warmer, damp ones and ignoring the way he grimaces a little at the feeling, "It's just a bad cold, nothing serious. I won't drop dead if you take some time to yourself."

Drop dead, a poor choice of words deeming what he's been through in the past. You quickly become aware of that fact and gently squeeze his hand as if to silently apologize for any damage you may have accidentally done. He squeezes your hand back, but the way he gazes down at you makes you unable to tell if he's accepted the apology or didn't even catch your slip of the tongue and was simply thinking of other things.

"I..just.." He hesitates, and that new swirl in his eyes tells it all. Like opening a book, you're able to see every word of doubt and fear whirling in those two sheets of minty hues before he's ever able to say them aloud. You wait anyway though, and he finally mutters out, "..I don't want that to happen again.."

Using the time he hesitated to think up a response, your quick to retort with, "And it won't. I'd never allow that to happen."

"You can't control an illness, Y/n," Finally you hear it. It's only there for a second and it's mixed with a heavy layer of desperation, but you heard it; that spurt of anger in his tone, "And if it isn't constantly watched and treated it can turn into something incurable and if that happens you'll—"

"That will never happen, Yuichiro—"

"You don't know that!" It's there again, but now it's ten times worse. His anger has meshed with anguish and turned to pure fury. It's odd for it to be directed at you. After all, anger this bad isn't even directed at his patients so for it to be directed at you, his lover, is a little scary, you'll admit..

"An illness is capable of anything and can bring even the strongest soldiers down! I've seen it happen more than once and if you don't shut up and let me tend to you, there's a possibility the same will happen to you and I can't allow that!" In his fit of rage, you notice the crystal lining of tears along his water line and seeing it felt as if an actual crystal was stabbed into your heart.

It wasn't often Yuichiro cried and he never let anyone besides you see him like that, not his even his twin brother. You can see why that may be. After all, the sight of his eyes full of tears makes him seem like some little kid no matter what emotion he shows with it. Seeing it makes you want nothing more than to pull him in your arms and protect him from the world—something your confident Yuichiro would hate with every fiber of his being..

"I- I can't allow that to happen..no matter what.." He whispers those words out to you and the cracks in the voice he tries to hide with an airy tone leaves it's own crack on your heart and causes it to ache. He sounds like a heartbroken poet...or maybe a kicked puppy would be more accurate.

"If I lost you I wouldn't know what to do..I-.. I'd—" And then you finally open your mouth to shush him, leaning over a little to grab his other hand as you do.

"Ssh, ssh.. Thinking stuff like that will only get you worked up unnecessarily," You try to mimic that pillowy tone he always talks to you in, adding a whisper to it to give your voice a more soothing effect as you roll your thumbs against the dorsal skin of his hands.

"It's really no need to overreact. With you working as hard as you have been these past few days, this cold of mine has barely been standing a chance. Plus, I know that as soon as Ms. Kocho has the time, she'll concoct something that'll have me bouncing right back up."

You tug at his hands suddenly and the unexpected change in weight cause him to tip over. Upon that happening, you immediately slither your arms around him and by the time his face hits your chest, he's completely caged against you—just like you wanted. After all, having him like this gives you the perfect opportunity to do something he hasn't allowed you to do in quite a while; play with his hair.

Your quick with undoing his ponytail and immediately take the leisure of running your hand through his hair—reveling in the way it changes from black to mint green and slips through your fingers with ease, "Like I said before, it'd take a lot more than this to take me out."

"I'm strong, Yuichiro. I can handle this. I've been in far more dire situations before, haven't I?" You repeat your action; starting at his scalp and slowly sliding your fingers through his pretty locks with a gentle smile stretched on your ablazed skin, "And for these past few days, I've had my amazing and skilled boyfriend tending to me without rest. I highly doubt that in the few hours he uses to rest, my cold will suddenly turn into something incurable like he says it will."

It must've finally dawned on him the position the two of you were in because he lifts his head and glares at you. His cheeks are dusted a cherry blossom pink and you giggle at the sight. He really did seem like a kid when he acted like this, but for the sake of your eardrums and emotional wellbeing, you decide not to voice that thought out loud.

"Dummy, you'll get me sick.." He grumbles, but still buries his face in the fabric of your patient uniform. Your grin widens further at both the sight and the feeling of the crack in your heart finally being mended by seeing him less distressed.

"Perfect! If you got sick, you'll have no choice but to rest and I'll get the opportunity to take care of you for once!" He huffs at your answer. Of course you'd say something like that..

It really was a stupid response though. To him, you take care of him all the time by making his heart flutter like the butterflies surrounding the estate and make his worries wash away like you did just now, leaving him to feel nothing but this light, warm feeling that he's slowly growing addicted to. You merely tending to him while he's sick pales in comparison to that.

Dividers were made by me, pictures used are from Pinterest, post formatting is inspired by @xxsabitoxx

[naamahdarling]

Today's medical update, please pardon any weirdness as I am using speech to text, and please excuse how long this is. I put an excellent picture of Fancy at the end for you. Here we go.

The shortest version is that my GP is going to try and centralize this. I have made an appointment for Monday. We are going to start over from the very beginning. New specimens, new cultures, everything.

The long version is kind of wild ride. It's going under a cut

My GP is now telling me that on two of the occasions that I went to Urgent Care or the hospital for a UTI, the records say that I did not actually have one.

This makes no sense whatsoever. I was symptomatic and I could smell it. On both of these occasions, I was told in no uncertain terms that I did have one.

I do not believe I was lied to at either facility. That means the only possibilities are that the testing was done improperly, the results were charted improperly, the records were sent over improperly, or I didn't understand what was being said to me.

At this point, with this absolute clown show that has been unfolding around me, this ridiculous circus where each act is fraught with nonsensical antics even more baffling than the ones before, I am literally unable to come to any conclusions. This is absolutely maddening.

And it's frightening, because there is something wrong, genuinely, and it might be something that they are unable to detect with the methods they are currently using. That's scary for a multitude of reasons, one of which is that they are not going to be willing or able to treat something if they do not think it exists. The other is that it opens the door to the possibility of their being further testing, which makes me violent to even contemplate. I want what is wrong with me to be simple, easy to treat, and relatively benign.

This has been frustrating, and drawn out, and I am sick of it. By itself it isn't enough to completely break me down. It's been almost unbearable when combined with the facts that I have serious concerns about the health of three of my cats, that my father seems to be worsening in his condition, that I have several other medical storylines going concurrently with this one, one of which is extremely stressful and frightening, and that all of this fuckery and running around has caused me to have to cut out most of the very, very few enjoyable and meaningful activities that are present in my life.

It has impacted my ability to be present for my partner, and for my pets, for me to sustain communication and relationships with people who are not my boyfriend or my best friend, and to simply fucking relax.

Also I can't fuck. Like, I know that this is the laugh at horny people website, but that is significant. Receiving not just physical touch but intimate touch is one of the very few ways I have of assorting ownership over my own body at this time.

I feel my identity has shifted from an internally defined "struggling person just going about their business" to an externally defined identity as a patient with a body that is sick and who must now structure their life around the demands of a system that does not care about me in the slightest, even though the providers usually do.

From the outside I know that this doesn't seem that terrible. I've spent the vast majority of this with no pain, and the times I have been in pain haven't crested a 3. If it weren't for the fact that I don't know what it is, it would be relatively trivial!

Unfortunately, because this isn't all I have going on, it's been really fucking things up. I space my appointments out so that I have time to recover between each one. I have PTSD, I have medical trauma, I have emotional reactions after stepping into a medical facility for any reason, and when things go wrong even in a very small way they can be intense. I manage this by allowing myself to have the reaction, experience all of the feelings, and come back to myself. It is a healthy way of doing things. It doesn't work, though, if I'm having to deal with one thing after another and no time in between to recover from it. This is essentially what has been happening to me for 2 months. Appointments, phone calls, messages, fixing mistakes, having to explain my history repeatedly as it gets ever more complicated. There's a lot more to it than just one appointment a week, which is already a lot for me.

I know this is something that chronically ill people deal with all the time, often for years, often for life, but the extent of it is new to me and very difficult to bear. My personality is vanishing under the weight of all of this crap. I do not feel like myself.

So yeah, sorry for rambling so much but this is just been...I don't even have the words to describe it. Nonsensical, but in an unfortunately consequential way. I've been going in circles all this time, apparently.

I don't really expect anybody to read all of this. But if you did, thank you. It means a lot to me. This place, and all of you, function as a sort of pressure relief, and a source of constant, pleasurable entertainment. I know many of you empathize with what I'm going through, and that helps me to feel less alone. That all by itself is so important.

Anyway, here's my cat.

She got to be on the puzzle table and was very smug about it.

[watchandread02]

For the "Holidays with the Winchesters: A very Destiel Christmas Advent Calendar" by @archervale and @wormstacheangel

Day Eleven: Bells

Ao3

Every year one of the Elves gets to fly in the sleigh with Santa and distribute the presents. It’s probably just a coincidence that Cas has been able to do so the last couple of years.

At least that’s what Dean tells himself, as he makes sure everything is ready for him to make his trip around the world in a few minutes.

“Hello Dean.” Cas suddenly says from behind Dean.

“Dammit Cas, warn a guy. One of these days I’m going to put a bell on you.” Dean tells Cas, as he turns around to face him.

“I’m sorry I startled you, that was not my intention. I just wanted to inform you that I will be the one joining you again this year. Donna seems to have gotten a stomach bug and asked me to fill in for her.” Cas says.

Dean frowns for a moment, this is the fifth year in a row this has happened. Ever since Dean took over the mantle as Santa from his father. Normally the elves randomly pick out a name from a head and that one is lucky to ride in the sleigh and distribute presents together with Santa. Maybe Dean is doing something wrong, if none of the other elves want to fly with him. At least Cas seems happy to take the job.

Cas seems to pick up on Dean’s frustration as he asks, “are you okay with me taking over? I know that I have gone with you for the past four years and you’re probably getting sick of me. I could probably still find someone else to go out with you?”

“No! No. It’s okay. I have nothing against you coming with me. I’m just worried that the others don’t like me very much. They have all avoided going with me ever since I took over. Maybe I’m doing something wrong?” Dean admits as he looks down at his shoes.

This has been a common fear for Dean the past couple of years. Sam and Dean’s father had retired five years ago and so they had taken over. Sam had taken to handling the logistics and overseeing the manufacturing process like a duck to water. The kid was a natural. Dean took over the actual physical part of handing out the presents and checking over the naughty and nice list. Sometimes he works on upgrading the sleigh together with Charlie and makes sure that the sleigh as well as the reindeer are in top condition for the big day, every year. He had also tried to keep his relationship with the elves as good as it had been before his dad had retired. Dean had loved talking with the elves and giving them a helping hand since he had been old enough to do so. A lot of them had seen him grow into the man he was today, so he doesn’t understand why they all seem to avoid being alone with him for those few hours, once a year.

Dean is startled out of his thoughts, as Cas places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Don’t think like that Dean. They all love you very much and I have it on good authority that they admire you. It just seems that any elf lucky enough to go out with you comes down with some kind of illness, on Christmas Eve. I am always very happy to jump in to help out though.”

Dean smiles softly at Cas and thanks him for his kind words. Dean certainly isn’t going to complain, about getting to spend some uninterrupted time with Cas. They’ve also gotten a routine down in the last few years of doing this together, so everything should go smoothly.

Charlie comes up to them to give them the ‘one minute until take off’ warning. Cas and Dean get onto the sleigh and the other elves gather around to watch them fly off into the night.

With the jingeling of the bells around the reindeers necks, they are off to their first stop.

—

Dean checks in with the home base, once they have dropped off the last load of presents. Everything seems to be in order, so Dean prepares to take off for one last time. Cas checks up on the reindeer, before getting into the sled again. Dean holds his hand up and Cas takes it, slotting their fingers together. The first time Dean had held up his hand for Cas for a high five, he hadn’t understood what Dean was trying to do and just intertwined their fingers. Dean hadn’t been strong enough to actually tell Cas what he had been going for. So this has become their tradition. After they finished up their tour, Dean would hold up his hand and Cas would take it. They just sit there like that and stare into each other's eyes for a few minutes.

Their staring contest is interrupted by the radio crackling to live, “home base to Destiel. Home base to Destiel.” Charlie’s voice comes over the loudspeaker.

Dean doesn’t really understand the whole ‘Destiel’ thing, but Charlie refuses to stop using it, so reluctantly he replies, “yes this is Destiel to home base. Everything still good to go?”

“Yes you are cleared for take off. Just wanted to know what is taking you so long?” Charlie replies.

“We are going to prepare for take off now. Cas just checked up on the reindeer, before we took off for home.” Dean tells Charlie. He is definitely not going to tell Charlie that Cas and him had just spent the last couple of minutes pretty much holding hands and looking into each other's eyes. She doesn’t need more ammunition. It’s bad enough that she knows about the crush Dean has on Cas.

Dean takes a quick look at Cas, who nods at him and finally urges the reindeer to take off into the air again.

They are still probably an hour away from home when the reindeer take a sudden dive towards the ground. They land bumpily on the snow covered ground and the second the sleigh comes to a stop, the reindeers’ harnesses disengage and they take off. The tinkling of the bells get quieter until they can’t be heard anymore and are nowhere to be seen.

Cas and Dean look at each other in shock, before Dean breaths out, “What the fuck, just happened?”

—

Back at the north pole

“Are you sure this is going to work this time, Charlie?” Sam asks.

Charlie turns around in her chair at her station, to look up at Sam. “It has to. Cause otherwise I’m out of ideas. We have tried to get them alone for a few hours every year since Dean took over. And even though they have spent hours upon hours alone together nothing seems to happen.”

“Yeah I’m happy all the other elves have gone along with this for the past few years. And also the times outside of that. I don’t even know how many times we have locked them into closets together or tried to get them under the mistletoe together. If it doesn’t happen this year. I don’t know if it ever will.” Sam lets out frustratedly.

“We’ll just try this one last time and maybe a Christmas miracle will happen. After that we may just have to leave them to their own devices.” Charlie says as she turns back around to her monitors.

Sam sighs heavily, “I don’t know if I can take anymore of their staring and their UST. They don’t even listen to me when I’m in the room with them.”

“Well let's initiate our last plan: ‘Operation Destiel’s profound bond’, is a go.” Charlie says as she activates a button and the previously moving red dot on the map, comes to a sudden stop.

—

After the shock had worn off, Dean had tried to turn on the engine that Charlie and him had installed for emergencies. Dean had never imagined that the emergency would be the reindeer just taking off on their own. When the engine failed to start, Dean had moved to the front of the sleigh to look at what could be the problem. He had been looking for a few minutes already, but had not been able to see anything wrong. So Dean trudged back through the snow towards the seats, where Cas was trying to get in contact with anyone at the North Pole.

“You have any luck?” Dean asks as he heaves himself back onto the seats.

“No. I haven’t been able to contact anyone and it just keeps giving out static. Did you have any luck with the engine?” Cas says.

Dean shakes his head, “there seems to be nothing wrong with it.”

“So, what do we do now?” Cas asks looking out over the white expanse stretching all around them.

“I guess we’re kind of sitting ducks, until the reindeer come back or Charlie decides to tell us what this is all about. She must have activated something remotely, since nothing is physically wrong.” Dean explains.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, before Cas starts shivering slightly. Elves might be made for cold temperatures, but just sitting in the snow, in nothing but a flimsy uniform and not moving around, would have anyone starting to freeze at some point.

Dean takes off his thick fluffy jacket and places it over Cas’ shoulders. Cas looks over at him gratefully.

“But don't you feel cold, without your jacket?” Cas asks.

“No, I- I’ll be- be fi- fine.” Dean says as his teeth start to chatter.

Cas raises his brow at him and damn if that doesn’t make Dean at least feel hot on the inside.

“Dean, your whole body is shivering. Come on, we can share the jacket.” Cas says, as he opens up one side, so Dean can slide under the jacket with him.

Like this Dean can feel the body heat coming off of Cas. Cas snuggles in even closer to him and tucks his face into Dean’s neck. The coldness of Cas’ skin makes him jump, but then he can feel Cas let out hot puffs of air against his skin and the hairs on Dean’s body stand up. Dean leans his head on top of Cas’ and just soaks in the moment.

“Hey Dean, why do you think Charlie would trap us out here?” Cas whispers softly, breaking the silence that had settled over them.

Dean’s body stiffens up for a moment, but then he relaxes again and resolves himself that he will finally have to reveal his feelings to Cas. Of course Charlie would pull something like this.

Dean pulls back and lifts Cas’ head up. “I think I have an idea why Charlie would do this.”

Cas tilts his head, “you do?”

“Yeah.” Dean rubs the back of his neck. “Well you see Charlie might have found something out. And it’s about you.” Dean takes Cas’ hands into his and looks him resolutely in the eyes. Cas is already looking back at him, attention solely focused on Dean, like he’s the only thing that matters.

“You can tell me anything.” Cas reassures him and squeezes Dean’s hands.

“Cas, I love you.” Dean says. For a terrifying second nothing happens and then a grin breaks out across Cas face. It makes his whole face light up and the corners of his eyes wrinkle slightly.

“I love you too, Dean.” Cas tells him.

Dean lets out a sigh of relief. His eyes flicker between Cas’ eyes and lips and finally he moves in closer.

“Can I kiss you?” Dean whispers, their faces only inches from each other.

Instead of answering Cas surges forward and closes the gap between them. Their first kiss is a bit clumsy, teeth clicking against each other and noses bumping. They chuckle lightly as they pull apart for a few seconds, forehead touching just looking into each other's eyes. The second kiss is much calmer, just lips pressing against lips. The smiles on their faces prevented the kiss from really going any deeper. And then finally their third kiss they get it right. Mouths slotting together and tongues intertwining. Dean pulls Cas impossibly closer, wanting to be as close as possible. After a while they pull back, breaths heaving. Damn, Dean thinks. He’s just been kissed stupid in the middle of nowhere, by the guy he has been in love with, before he even really knew what love was.

During their impromptu make out session the jacket had slipped off their shoulders, so the both of them are shivering slightly. Dean pulls Cas close and puts the jacket over them again. This time there's no hesitation though. They just snuggle up to each other, waiting for something to happen. Because surely Charlie wouldn’t actually let them freeze to death.

After what is probably an hour of them sitting alone in the snow, Cas looks up from where his head had been resting against Dean’s chest. At some point Cas had moved into Dean’s lap and they had just been sharing stories, interspaced with silence. Cas’ ears are twitching and he looks into the distance. Dean has the sudden urge to kiss Cas’ ear. So he does, because he can do that now. Cas smiles at him, a blush rising on his cheeks.

“I think the reindeer are coming back. I can hear their bells in the distance.” Cas says, as he moves to get down from Dean’s lap, but Dean just pulls him close again.

“I’m not letting you go, now that I have you.” Dean whispers into his ear.

Cas snuggles up close to Dean again, making himself at home against Dean’s chest and Dean rests his head on top of Cas’. Around a minute later, Cas is proven true, as the reindeer are now lining back up again. Their harnesses engage automatically and the sleigh lifts up off the ground. They ignore the occasional call that comes through on the radio, just enjoying their closeness.

Around an hour later, the white vastness that had surrounded them up until now, makes way for the brightly lit buildings that make up the North Pole.

The reindeer land gracefully in the landing area. Dean and Cas reluctantly pull back from each other. Cas gets off Dean’s lap and hands him the coat that had been slipping off his shoulders. Dean just leaves it laying on the seat and moves to disembark. Once he is safely on the ground he turns back around to offer a hand to Cas. Cas takes it with a smile and they just keep holding on, even after Cas is securely standing on the ground again. Finally they turn around to face the others, who had waited up for their safe return.

Charlie tackles them into a hug. She squeezes them tight for a moment, before pulling back and slapping their shoulders.

At their affronted looks she just replies, “that’s what you get for making me think you died or something out there. Would it have been so hard to just send a little notice, when we tried to contact you?”

“And who’s fault would it have been if we had frozen to death?” Dean asks drily.

Charlie looks at least a little chastised, but a grin quickly comes back to her face. “But it worked!” she screams pointing at their still intertwined hands.

“That it did.” Cas says as he moves their hands to his mouth to kiss the back of Dean’s hand. He gives Dean a soft smile and Dean is unable to stop himself from kissing Cas on the mouth.

The gathered crowd cheers as Cas and Dean are just lost in each other for a moment.

[fatgirlonadate-blog]

21 Days - Day 10

Xavier has the unique ability to keep everyone, even those closest to him, at an arm's length. He will speak freely and easily about casual topics, yet guards anything personal like his life depends on it. He's an open book until you dare try to turn the page past the first chapter. It's something that you've had to accept about him over the course of your friendship, and you rarely get anywhere when you press him on it. But as the two of you grow closer, it's becoming increasingly frustrating.

"Why am I just now finding out that your birthday is in six days?" You ask him, scrolling through his employee profile on your phone as the two of you sit at the dining table eating breakfast.

"You never asked," Xavier replies simply, continuing to eat his food.

The deep scowl you shoot him over your phone makes it clear that his answer isn't good enough and he sighs, setting his spoon down.

"Why would I mention it? It's the same as any other day."

"The same as any other day?" You repeat his words, incredulous. "What do you mean? It's your birthday!"

"It's not important. I don't really celebrate it."

The way he says it so casually, like he really believes it, doesn't sit right with you. Sure, it's his birthday and he's entitled to celebrate it however he wants, but the idea that it's not important - that no one has ever made it feel important - cuts through your chest like a knife.

"You don't do anything for it at all?" You press, setting your phone down to really look at him.

"Sometimes I have hot pot or spend the day reading a new book."

It takes everything in your limited self-restraint to keep your expression neutral and only nod in response as a plan begins to form in your mind. Hot pot and a new book were not going to cut it - not this year. The mature thing would be to respect his wishes, you know. But you've never been particularly mature, and Xavier deserves more than a bowl of noodles and a new book. He deserves to know that he's important. He deserves to feel...loved.

"Maybe we could spend your birthday reading together then? I'm feeling nice, so I'll even let you pick the book," you joke, trying desperately to sound natural.

"How very generous of you," Xavier says with an amused laugh, "I'd like that."

He returns to his meal, and you suppress the urge to ask him more questions. It would be nice to know what his other birthdays were like; surely he must have celebrated them with his family when he was younger? The image of a 5-year-old Xavier flashes through your mind unbidden, and you can almost picture him: chubby cheeks, wide blue eyes, fluffy hair, and a light blade taller than he is. You'd sell your soul to hear stories about him as a child. But you know better than to ask him. He'd grow quiet and tense, giving you a vague, evasive answer that would only make the distance he keeps between you feel wider.

The rest of the meal passes in comfortable silence, and you spend the time mentally creating a list of things you want to do for his birthday. It cannot be the same as any other day. Not this time. Not with you. Six days isn't a lot of time to plan something, but it should be more than enough with a little help.

"I have to head back into the city today." You mention, grabbing the bowls and utensils to clear the table. "I got distracted and forgot to cancel a doctor's appointment. I'll probably be gone for a few hours."

"Are you sick?"

"No," you call back to him, placing the dishes into the sink, "it's just a routine check-up."

"I'll come with you." Xavier offers, joining you in the kitchen.

"Nah, you don't need to. Besides, someone has to stay behind and make sure our suspect doesn't happen to choose today to finally make an appearance."

The old faucet squeaks to life as you rinse the dishes, and distracts you from the sound of his footsteps. You startle slightly as Xavier wraps his arms around you from behind and presses his chest against your back. "I'll come with you. Who else will keep you out of trouble if I'm not there?"

These small moments of blatant affection are still new. Xavier had always found subtle ways to express himself before: a brighter smile whenever you walked into the room, a hand on your back to steady you even though you didn’t need it, linking his pinky with yours as the two of you fell asleep on his couch, his lips brushing against your ear during a hug. But things have been different the last few days—it’s as if he can’t stop touching you. Neither of you has acknowledged it—too afraid to give it a name.

"I'm a grown-ass woman," you protest, "I don't need anyone to keep me out of trouble."

Xavier hums against your ear, and you can practically feel the way the corners of his mouth turn up in amusement, "I don’t know about that. Do you know how many times I have had to practically carry you home? I'm coming."

You huff in protest, but your smile is wider than a Cheshire cat’s. "Fine. Come with me then, but make yourself useful. No sleeping on the train, mister. I expect to be entertained."

You can feel him smile again as he places a kiss on the side of your neck.

"I'll do my best, Mrs. Shen."

It is not a surprise that Xavier lasted all of 15 minutes on the train before promptly falling asleep with his head on your shoulder. Light shining in through the window bounces off his fluffy hair making it look more golden than usual. The soft glow he's illuminated in transforms his normal cute features into something more ethereal. He's handsome. Jaw-droppingly handsome. It's easy to take for granted when you're seeing him every day, but you are painfully aware of it now.

He had insisted that you wear his white zippered jacket the moment you'd left the house despite it being quite warm for an Autumn day. Between the added layer of clothing and his body pressed against your side, it's hot on the train. It's not the kind of heat that makes you sweat; it's the kind of heat that makes your body feel languid and sleepy. Xavier never stood a chance of staying awake for the entire train ride.

You're nearly nodding off yourself when the loudspeakers announce that you've arrived at your destination. A flutter of excitement builds in your chest as you rouse Xavier and the two of you exit the train. Dr. Zayne is a man of few words, and you'd hardly heard from him over the last 10 days. It's the longest you've gone without seeing him since the two of you reconnected, and you're anxious to see him again.

The streets are bustling with shoppers and tourists, and the sounds of the city are almost deafening after spending nearly two weeks in the relative silence of the countryside. Xavier's fingers lace with yours, and he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze as the two of you weave through the sea of people on the sidewalk.

The receptionist greets the two of you as you arrive, and after confirming the details of your visit, instructs you to sit in the lobby while you wait. The hospital looks much the same as the last time you were here; the white walls are stark and bright, and the sterile scent of disinfectant is strong in the air. The space is relatively empty, and there is no sign of Dr. Zayne - likely still busy with his last patient. But your eyes light up when you see Dr. Greyson passing through the waiting room, and you give him an excited wave.

"Hey, doctor!" You call to him, "It's been a while."

He approaches the two of you with a warm smile and takes a seat in the chair next to yours, "Ah, Dr. Zayne's most unruly patient. How are you doing? You look well."

Xavier sits silently beside you, his eyes shifting between you and Greyson.

"I am, thanks to the two of you. How are you? How's the protocore syndrome research going?"

"Busy, but I can't complain. Not much progress has been made since your visit last month, but I did run across something you might be interested in." He pulls out his phone and angles his body closer to you to share his screen. With deft fingers, he quickly navigates to a medical journal that he has bookmarked. "It's a paper that Xander Sciences just published."

Thankfully, the abstract is brief, and you instinctively lean in toward Dr. Greyson as you skim through it. Xander Science's research is notoriously secretive, making it surprising they've released new findings. Just as you reach out to scroll to the bottom, your chair unexpectedly skids several inches to the side.

"Woah!" You yelp in surprise and turn to look in the direction your chair was yanked. Xavier's hand is retreating from your armrest that is now flush with his.

"Sorry, hand slipped." He says flatly, looking not at all apologetic.

Dr. Greyson eyes flit curiously between the two of you, and he slips his phone back into his pocket. "Right. Well, it was good to see you. Dr. Zayne's schedule is packed today, but I doubt your wait will be much longer."

"Thank you, see you next time!" You say to Dr. Greyson's retreating back. The moment he's out of hearing range, you turn toward Xavier and hiss, "What was that about?"

Xavier looks sheepish for a moment, and then shrugs, "My hand really did slip."

You frown and roughly tug at the cuff of his long-sleeve black t-shirt. “Really? This hand just moved on its own?”

“Yep,” he answers definitively, grabbing your hand with his and holding it in his lap. His thumb idly traces back and forth across your wrist.

"I don't believe that for one sec-"

A short woman wearing scrubs interrupts you mid-sentence, "Dr. Zayne will see you shortly. Please follow me."

As soon as you rise to follow her back to Zayne's office, Xavier stands up too, catching the petite nurse's attention.

“No guests are allowed in exam rooms—only immediate family. I’m afraid I'll have to ask you to wait here, sir,” she says, her tone flat and dismissive, as if she’s had this conversation a thousand times before.

"I'm her husband." Xavier says with a lazy smile.

It is a good thing that he wrapped an arm around your waist at the same time as he said it or you would have tripped over thin air. Husband. HUSBAND. What in the world is he thinking? This is Linkon. This is your hospital. These people know you!

The entire English language is wiped from your memory as you open your mouth to speak, and you're left stuttering like an idiot, "I...um...well..."

The nurse shifts on her feet and glances between the two of you, clearly uncertain if she should believe you or not. But after glancing at her watch, she simply shrugs and motions for you to follow.

"You'll be seen in exam room 4 today rather than Dr. Zayne's personal office."

The walk to the exam room is short and punctuated only by the sound of your footsteps and the beat of your own heart in your ears. The room itself is familiar - plain white walls, a single exam table, an ECG machine, and a small desk in the corner. It's the same every month. But what isn't the same is the sight of Xavier slouched in the chair by the door looking comfortable and at ease with the situation.

The nurse begins running you through the typical set of diagnostics for your visit: checking your pulse, blood pressure, and a slew of questions about any symptoms you currently have. Though you've answered questions about your menstrual cycle and sexual activity a dozen times at these appointments, it feels so much more awkward with Xavier listening. Finally, when she's satisfied that the basic checks are done, she excuses herself, and the two of you are left alone.

"You are not my husband! I cannot believe you said that!" you whisper-yell at Xavier.

"I am," he retorts, "for the next few months, to be precise."

"Not here, you aren't! Not in the city! Not actually!"

Xavier laughs softly at your quiet outrage, clearly not appreciating how embarrassed you feel. "Should I have said I was your brother? We do not really look alike."

You groan, and bury your face in your hands, "No! You should have just stayed in the waiting room!"

He lets out another soft laugh, and then goes quiet. The only sound in the exam room for a moment is the sound of his chair sliding across the floor as he moves closer to the table. The next thing you feel is his hand wrapping around your right wrist and pulling your palm away from your face.

"Did I mess up? I'm sorry," he says softly, "I thought you'd want me to come in with you."

The teasing expression is gone from his eyes and replaced by something gentle and vulnerable. He's trying, you realize. He's trying to be supportive and a part of your life in a way he never has before. He's trying to support you for something even as simple as a checkup. He cares about you. It's always been obvious that he cares about you. But this feels like more. It feels like...a word you won't even let yourself think.

A soft knock at the door interrupts the moment, and you spring away from Xavier like you've been burned and jerk your wrist from his grasp. Your eyes snap in the direction of the door right as it swings open.

"Hello," Dr. Zayne greets you, his voice cold and professional, "I apologize for the delay. My last patient had a lot of questions."

If Zayne is surprised that Xavier is present, he makes no outward sign of it as he takes his seat at the small desk and reviews your file on the screen of his monitor. He's dressed impeccably, as always. The white dress shirt and black tie under his lab coat look good on him, but there are darkened circles under his eyes that hint at sleepless nights.

"It's good to see you, Dr. Zayne. How have you been?"

Zayne responds without looking up from his computer, "I've been quite well. But that's not why we are here. How have you been feeling? Any changes recently? Fatigue? Shortness of breath?"

The coolness in his tone would have once intimidated you, but you'd long since come to understand his aloof facade. With more and more frequency you were able to break through it, but for the second time today you wish Xavier had stayed in the waiting room. It's rare for Zayne to let his guard down while inside the hospital, and Xavier's presence here makes the possibility virtually nonexistent.

"I feel good. Sometimes I'm tired, but who isn't? And no, no shortness of breath."

"Good." Zayne says with a slight nod and turns to face you, "Should I ask why you've brought a guest or would you rather I stay in suspense?"

His eyes cut toward Xavier briefly, and then returned to you. His gaze is sharp and intense, and it's unclear if he's irritated or simply curious.

"Xavier. I'm her partner," Xavier answers before you have a chance to speak.

"My hunting partner!" You clarify quickly.

Zayne's brows raise infinitesimally, "I see. And is it customary now for your colleagues to accompany you to your doctor's visits?"

While it was unclear before, it's not now. Irritated. That's irritation in his voice, and he is pointedly ignoring Xavier's existence.

"No," you answer with a nervous laugh. "We're on a long-term mission. He wasn't supposed to come back here. We just had a teensy misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding." Zayne repeats, and his lips twitch into the barest hint of a smile. "Interesting. Hard to believe that could happen with your excellent communication skills."

The tension in your shoulders ease at his small attempt at humor, and you return his ghost of a smile with a much livelier one. The moment of ease is fleeting, though, because Zayne quickly slips back into doctor mode. He asks question after question about your daily activities, sleeping habits, and nutrition. Zayne finds very few of your answers to be satisfactory. By the time he's finished, you feel properly chastised. Xavier, thankfully, remained silent throughout your interrogation.

"Sit here, please." Zayne requests, pulling a stool out from under the desk. "I'd like to check your heart before we part ways."

You do as you are told, and move to sit in front of him. He slips the stethoscope from around his neck and places the instrument over your chest. His silence during this part of the exam always makes you nervous, and you cannot help but try to fill it for him.

"I'm sure it's fine, right? If something were wrong I'd have felt a difference. Wouldn't I?"

Zayne leans closer as you babble, his brows furrowed, his attention focused.

"It's only been a month since my last checkup. What could have chang-"

"Shhh," Zayne shushes you, and his eyes on yours are a reprimand.

You immediately snap your mouth closed with a click and freeze, sitting perfectly still under his stethoscope.

"You should still breathe," he softly admonishes, meeting your eyes.

You immediately suck in several quick lungfuls of air, your chest rising and falling dramatically in response.

"Slowly. And deeply." He corrects, moving his hand to the small of your back and pressing insistently to correct your posture. You straighten your spine at his touch, and take a deep, slow breath in before releasing it at the same rate.

The corner of Zayne's mouth twitches upward as you comply, and he moves the stethoscope to another spot on your chest, "Good girl. Keep doing that for me."

You flinch and feel Zayne's hands tense against your back as the lights in the room flicker once, twice, and then go completely dark for a moment. There's a scraping sound as Zayne scoots his chair back and stands up just as the lights in the room hum back to life as if they'd never gone out in the first place.

You dart an accusatory glance at Xavier only to see that his posture has completely changed. He's sitting with his arms crossed, jaw clenched, and is staring unwaveringly at Zayne.

Zayne, however, remains the picture of composure as he settles back into his chair. Though you're seated directly in front of him, his gaze shifts past you, locking onto Xavier with a calculating look.

"Must be a storm," Xavier says roughly, leaning back in his chair and uncrossing his arms.

"Must be." Zayne replies, his expression is as inscrutable as Xavier's.

Silence stretches between the three of you as they continue to stare at each other. Your eyes shift between the two men, waiting for something to happen. An explanation. A diversion. An act of God. Something. Is this how men size each other up? Does the man who speaks first lose?

"So...how'd my heart sound, Dr. Zayne? Fit as a fiddle, right?" You ask, breaking the silence for them. They both turn to look at you as you speak, and the tension eases a fraction.

Zayne swivels in his seat to face the desk and begins typing. "You're in good health, despite your best efforts to sabotage it. I'd like to see you back in two weeks for a follow-up."

"Two weeks?" You repeat, "But I usually come once a month."

"Two weeks." He confirms, reaching into the drawer of his desk, "We'll go over your test results then. Privately."

Zayne stands and nudges the drawer closed, gesturing toward the door. A clear dismissal.

You stand and Xavier is quick to follow as Zayne opens the door and steps out of the room to show the two of you out.

"Thanks, Dr. Zayne. I'll see you in a couple of weeks, then."

Zayne nods as you and Xavier exit the room into the hallway. He gently catches your wrist in his hand as you're about to walk away, and presses a small, foil-wrapped candy into your palm.

"Do not hesitate to call me if anything changes," Zayne says quietly, his voice as professional as always. But you hear it. The message that's hiding in the words he won't ever say: I'm here for you. Any time.

Zayne pulls away and returns to the exam room with a polite, distant smile.

As soon as the door shuts, Xavier slips his hand into yours and begins walking toward the hospital exit. His fingers around yours are slightly too tight for comfort, and his pace is quicker than normal. It's an effort to keep up.

"What is that?" He asks, clearly not having missed the small exchange between you and Zayne.

"Oh! It's candy." You open your other palm to show him the small piece of candy in your hand. "I always get one after a checkup. It's kind of an inside joke."

"He complained about your diet." Xavier says wryly, glancing down at your hand, "But he gives you candy?"

"Are you jealous of the candy now? Do you want me to give it to you?" You tease him, bumping your shoulder into his.

Xavier scoffs, "No. You can keep your hospital candy, Mrs. Shen."

Your laughter echoes through the hospital corridor, and Xavier's face relaxes into a smile. The tension leaves his body, and his grip on your hand eases. His pace slows, and he falls in step beside you instead of pulling you along behind him.

The streets of Linkon are crowded by the time you and Xavier leave the hospital. The sky has grown darker, gray clouds rolling in from the distance, and the air smells heavy. There's a chill wind that wasn't there earlier today, and you wrap Xavier's jacket closer around you as you walk.

You're halfway toward the train station as the first raindrop lands on your face. It's followed by another, and then another. The clouds open up and the rain falls in a torrent. Within seconds, you're both soaked to the bone.

Xavier tightens his grip on your hand and the two of you begin to run, weaving your way through the crowd of pedestrians. It's cold and wet, but the adrenaline of running hand-in-hand through the street with him has you giggling uncontrollably. You squeal with laughter and pretend to protest as he scoops you up and carries you through the large puddle separating you from the entrance to the train station. 

The train is already boarding when the two of you arrive, so there's no time to find a bathroom and dry off. You're wet, shivering, and the two of you leave a trail of water and footprints in your wake as you board.

The train car is mostly empty, and you quickly make your way to the back and claim the last two seats in the row. You sit by the window and Xavier plops down beside you, shaking his head like a wet dog. Water droplets fling in every direction, and you laugh and whine as you try to shield yourself.

"Xav! No!" You scold him, "You're getting me all wet!"

He stops shaking his head and turns to grin at you, "What? You're already drenched. Is it even possible to make you more wet?"

The thought that instantly springs to your mind has nothing to do with rain, and you feel your cheeks heat even though you're shivering in your seat. Xavier's grin grows wider and you can see that he's caught onto your thoughts.

"Oh, are you blushing?" He asks, trailing his cold fingers down your too-warm cheek, "I wonder why."

"No! I'm not blushing. Shut up. It's...It's just very cold."

"Cold? Really?" He coaxes, "You sure it's not something else?"

"Very sure. What else could it be?"

"Hm, I think I know," Xavier says softly.

He snakes an arm around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. He's cold, too. The thin material of his black t-shirt is damp and clings to his chest in a way that should be illegal. Your eyes stray to the planes of his chest and stomach that you can see against the fabric. The temptation to touch him is only tempered by the way he's shivering and the fact that you're both very much in public.

The rain is still falling hard as the two of you make it back to your temporary suburban home. The warmth of the cozy apartment is an immediate relief, and you do not waste any time kicking your soggy shoes off and peeling off your jacket. Your damp jeans cling to your legs as you bend over and roll your drenched socks off one-by-one.

"Come on, let's get changed. You'll catch a cold if you stay in wet clothes," Xavier says, placing his hand on the small of your back to lead you down the hall to the bedroom.

The moment you're both in the bedroom, Xavier begins stripping out of his wet clothes. He peels the soaked t-shirt off of his upper body and throws it into the laundry basket near the door. There's no hesitation in his hands and he's not looking in your direction as he starts removing his jeans. The button is quickly undone, and he's just hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants when you finally remember to turn away.

Your attention is now directed to your own clothes, and you suddenly feel more shy than you should. The two of you have changed clothes around and near each other for the last several days, but there's always been some unspoken agreement to find a reason to leave the room once one of you gets down to your underwear.

Your cheeks feel hot again, and your fingers are clumsy as you pull at the hem of your shirt. The wet fabric sticks to you as you pull it over your head and toss it into the laundry basket to join Xavier's wet clothes. You fumble with the button of your jeans, and the zipper sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet of the room. Your heart is beating hard in your chest as you push the stubborn wet denim down to your ankles and step out of them.

Your bra and panties are slightly damp, and there's no reason not to take them off. There's no reason to be blushing this hard from simply changing your clothes in a room with a man. Especially with a man you're sure already has his back turned toward you, but you're not brave enough to check.

"I'll get some towels," Xavier offers, his footsteps already heading in the direction of the door.

Your shoulders sag with relief and maybe a little disappointment. With a frustrated shake of your head at your own conflicting emotions, you quickly unhook your bra and slide off your panties. They land in the laundry basket with a quick toss, and you open the closet to find something to sleep in. You swiftly scan through your side, but can't help but notice that all of Xavier's sweaters look so soft and warm. A lot warmer than any of your pajamas.

You reach for the frayed white sweater on the shelf and pull it over your head. It's soft and warm, and the sleeves hang well past your fingertips. The bottom of the sweater falls midway down your thighs.

Choosing a pair of panties, something you normally do without a second thought, shouldn’t make you blush. "It’s not like he’s even going to see them," you whisper to yourself. Yet your hand hesitates as you sift through the options. There’s no reason to pick anything sexy—you barely own any, and it’s not like you’ve had someone to wear them for. But before you can second guess yourself, your hand moves instinctively, reaching to the back of the drawer to pull out a lacy black pair. You slip them on without another moment’s hesitation and pull the sweater down to stretch past your thighs.

Xavier returns moments later with a towel hanging loosely around his bare shoulders and another one grasped in his hands. His hair is tousled and messy, sticking up at all angles. It's a sight that you'd find adorable under different circumstances, but not tonight. Not right now because he's shirtless and his gray sweatpants are hanging low enough on his hips that you can see the beginning of the "V" line of his pelvis.

There should be an award for the effort it takes not to stare at him, and you reach your hand out for the towel that he's holding. Xavier shakes his head, and moves the towel further out of your reach.

"I'll do it," he says quietly, "Sit down."

"I can do it myself" you protest, but he's already herding you toward the bed.

You back up as he advances until the back of your knees press against the bed and you sit on the edge. Xavier joins you and wraps the plush towel around your shoulders, rubbing it lightly over the wet ends of your hair. He's gentle and thorough as he wrings the water out of your damp hair and uses the towel to dry the moisture off of the back of your neck.

Once you’re mostly dry, he sets the towel aside and gently runs his fingers through your hair, combing it out with care. Gathering it in his hand, he drapes it over one shoulder to clear the way. His fingers trail from your ear down to the nape of your neck.

"Is this mine?" He asks, tracing the collar of the white sweater you're wearing.

"I had no choice. I had to borrow it."

Xavier's eyes drift lower, to where the sweater ends at your bare thighs, before returning to your face.

"Is it the only thing that's mine?" He asks, his eyes searching yours.

For the slightest moment, you had thought he was asking if you'd stolen any of his other clothes. But then his meaning hit you like a lightning bolt burning heat through all of your nerve endings. Your mouth goes dry and you swallow thickly, trying to find your voice.

"Do you want me to be yours?" You whisper hesitantly, unable to directly answer his question.

"More than you could ever imagine."

His answer is quiet and breathy, but there’s not a second of hesitation in it. And it's the only push you need to finally close the gap between the two of you. You lean forward and catch his lips with yours, cupping his face in your hands to pull him closer. His lips are soft and warm against yours. When he traces the seam of your lips with his tongue you part them instantly to invite him in.

He kisses you slowly at first, but then his lips become more greedy and desperate. There’s a lack of finesse due to the urgency with which he’s consuming your mouth. And every movement of his lips and tongue against yours draws you in deeper and makes you feel more needy.

Need. That’s what this is. You know he feels the same way as his hands move to your shoulders and he pushes you back against the bed. He moves with you as you lie back against the bed and presses you down into the mattress with his weight. You part your thighs instinctively so that he can settle in between them. 

He caresses a path up your sides as he turns his attention to your neck and begins to place wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. These are not the chaste, small kisses he usually gives you while you fall asleep. You gasp and rock your hips against his as you feel the bite of his teeth against your throat. His tongue quickly soothes the area as he sucks on the ache his teeth left behind. His fingers halt near the top of your ribcage and he fists the fabric of the sweater in his hands before pulling back slightly to look at you.

"Can I touch you?" His voice is ragged and he's breathing hard between his parted lips.

"You already are," you answer distractedly, dragging your nails lightly down the smooth skin of his bare back.

"No," he clarifies, slipping one of his hands under your sweater. His fingers are rough and warm as he slides his hand up the expanse of your stomach, stopping right under the curve of your breast, "Can I touch you like this?"

Your heart is beating wildly, so hard and fast you're sure he must hear it. The warmth of his hand against your skin, so close to where he's never dared touch you before, makes you squirm with need and anticipation. You nod, eyes locked on his, and Xavier leans down to capture your lips in a hungry kiss as his hand inches higher and finally cups your breast.

The moment his fingers graze your nipple, your back arches off the bed, and a whimper escapes into his mouth. His warm hand caresses your sensitive skin, sending waves of pleasure straight to your core, but it’s not enough. Your sweater is bunched awkwardly around your waist, his arm trapped beneath it, though he doesn’t seem to notice as he kneads your breast more firmly. But you do—you don't want anything between you. Tilting your head to the side, you break the kiss and press gently against his chest until he pulls back.

"What's wrong? Did I hurt you?" He asks softly, confusion clear on his face as he relaxes his grip on you.

"No, I just...I want..." Your words trail off as you move your hands down to tug on the sweater that's bunched up between the two of you.

The sound that he makes in response is somewhere between a groan and a growl, and he immediately pushes himself up to help you yank the sweater off and toss it on the floor. Goosebumps erupt across your skin as the cool air of the room hits your skin.

"You're beautiful," Xavier whispers reverently, his hands moving to cup both of your breasts, "You have no idea how long I've wanted to touch you."

Your head falls back against the pillow as you let out a breathless sigh of his name, "Xavier..."

He exhales a shuddering breath and leans down to fit his body against yours - chest to chest, skin to skin. He moves one hand to the back of your neck and tangles his fingers in your hair, pulling gently as he leans down to kiss you again. You can feel the hard length of his cock is pressing insistently against you through his gray sweatpants as he grinds his hips against yours.

"It sounds so good when you say my name like that. Say it again." He commands softly, trailing kisses along your jaw and down to your ear.

"Xavier," you repeat, your voice breathy and barely audible as he bites your earlobe. "Please."

"Good girl." He whispers against your ear as she shifts to trail kisses along your collar bones.

You fist your hands in his hair as he moves lower, kissing and nipping a path between your breasts. The gasp that escapes your throat is loud in the quiet room as his mouth closes over one of your nipples and his hand caresses the other one while he sucks.

The coil of tension is building low in your belly, and you can barely contain the way your body responds to him. You're so wet that you can feel the lace of your panties slide against your smooth skin every time you rock your hips against his thigh. You want him so badly that your whole body starts to tremble with need.

“Please, Xavier," you beg through gasping breaths.

"Please what?" he asks, releasing your nipple with a wet sound and trailing kisses across to the other. "Tell me what you want. I'll give you anything."

"More...just more..." You plead, "Touch me."

He leans back onto his knees and his hand slides down your stomach, tracing circles around your belly button, before his fingers finally come to rest at the waistband of your lacy black panties.

"Here?" He asks, unable to draw his eyes away from his own fingers, "Do you want me to touch you here?"

You nod, and your chest rises and falls rapidly as his hand trails down the lace and presses against your pussy. The sound he makes when his fingers find the wetness between your legs is almost a whimper. You throw an arm over your mouth to muffle the cry that leaves your throat as Xavier strokes you, his fingers brushing against your clit through the thin fabric of your panties. His touch is bordering on too gentle as he rubs his fingers up and down the front of the lace.

"Is this mine, too?" he asks, cupping your pussy with his palm.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you know your face must be flushed crimson due to how hot it feels. You nod slowly, lips parted, your eyes glued to the way his fingers are splayed over your center.

"I need to hear it." He says in a low rough voice, and his fingers flex against your skin.

"Yours," you answer, your voice shaky and breathless.

Xavier groans softly and trails his hand upward to hook his fingers in the lace, "Can I take them off?"

"God, yes." You find your voice.

His fingers tremble slightly as he grasps the waistband and begins to pull the lace down your thighs. It's the hottest discovery in the world to see that Xavier - cool, calm, and collected Xavier - is just as nervous and affected by this as you are. He shifts somewhat awkwardly, his position between your thighs making it difficult, and you can't help but giggle as you help him pull the panties down and off.

But your giggles die in your throat and reincarnate as soft gasps and moans as his fingers slide up your thighs and he finally caresses your bare pussy. You rock your hips up against his hand, urging him to touch more of you, and you whimper loudly as he slips one of his fingers into your wet heat.

A moment later, he slides in a second finger, and the gentle stretch as he fills you sends a shockwave of pleasure rippling through your body. His fingers are long, curling inside you at just the right angle, making your legs tremble and your pussy tighten around him. It’s as though he already knows exactly where and how to touch you, like he's done this countless times before.

"Xavier," you whimper, feeling a familiar pressure beginning to build inside of you.

"You feel so good," he murmurs, "You're so tight and wet. Just for me. Isn't that right?"

The second you nod he crooks his fingers inside of you, pressing against a spot that feels electric, and you cry out his name as his thumb circles your clit. Your back arches and you reach out and fist the sheets in your hands.

"Good girl. Just like that." Xavier says, shifting so that he can lean over you and kiss your lips again.

His lips are firm and insistent against yours, the kiss is messy, and your breathing becomes shallow and fast. Your hips rock and grind against his hand as his fingers pump in and out of you. His thumb is still stroking your clit is the most delicious torture you've ever felt, and you don't ever want it to stop. You can feel the pleasure coiling and building low in your stomach as you suck on his tongue. He pulls away from the kiss and buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your flushed skin.

"You're so close. I can feel it," he whispers, and his voice is low and rough, "Come for me. Please."

The sound of him begging and the feeling of his thumb pressing harder against your clit is all you need. Your orgasm crashes over you, your walls convulsing around his fingers, and electric pleasure blooms from your stomach and spreads through your body.

You're still trembling as he slowly withdraws his fingers, and you watch with sated eyes as he sucks both of them clean. He hums softly and closes his eyes, and if it were possible to cum again on the spot, you would have.

His hair is messy from the way your fingers had tugged and pulled on it, and there is a distinct dark spot on his tented gray sweatpants from where you were grinding against him earlier. But it's his eyes that you can't seem to pull yourself away from. They're that soft, happy blue that you love and shining with adoration.

With a smile, he lies down next to you and pulls you into his arms. He grasps the edge of the blanket and brings it up to cover both of you as he places small kisses all over your face. You giggle as he kisses your nose and then rubs it with his own.

"Close your eyes," he says softly, threading his fingers through your hair as you yawn.

"I'm not tired."

"Yes, you are," he insists.

"But..." You trail off, too embarrassed to actually voice your thought, and slide your hand down his chest toward the waistband of his sweatpants.

He circles your wrist in his hand, and gently slides it back up his chest, "It's okay. Tonight was just for you."

You pout, "But I want-"

"Shhh." He shushes you quietly and shifts so that your head is resting against his chest with his arms wrapped around you.

"Just let me take care of you. That's all I want."

[hadit93]

Frustrations with Modern Thelema.

A couple of days ago I proclaimed that Thelema as a spiritual movement was dead, inert, and dull as dishwater. This was perhaps a harsh critique, but it cannot be denied that the majority of Thelemic circles have become stagnant, simply parroting Crowley instead of thinking for themselves. I do not believe Thelema as a current is dead. Thelema as a magical paradigm is very much so alive, vibrant, and filled with life. The issue is: Few people are willing to truly engage with it. Thelema is for all, but at some point upon engaging with it sheep will have to become wolves, the sleeping will have to become the awake; people will have to think for themselves.

My irritations with Thelemites have been going on for some time, you get into a discussion and if you say something they don’t like, they have a Crowley quote to back their ideas up and believe this is enough to shut your opinion down. Half of the time there is another Crowley quote that contradicts theirs because he often changed his mind, as we are all apt to do over the course of our lives. Not every word he penned was golden, some of it certainly was brilliant, other things were less…..sublime. 

Furthermore, we know a lot more about historical practices now, we know a lot more about the Golden Dawn practices, and yoga. Crowley certainly synthesised numerous currents into his magical system that was born out of and permeates the Thelemic current, but there were resources which were simply not available at the time. To ignore these advances in occultism is ridiculous. To follow any system unquestionably and without trying to find the best fit for the individual is ridiculous. Crowley died nearly 80 years ago, the world was a very different place, the magical world was a very different place, and I believe Thelema was written down by Crowley for us as Thelemites to develop. My question is: Where is that development today? There are a few notable people making innovations; however, the majority are still practicing magic blind to all that has come before and after Crowley.

Then we have the magick is simply psychological exercises designed to calm you down camp. Performing banishing rituals instead of smoking a cigarette. I don’t understand when Thelema began to have the magic and spirit stripped out of it, but it needs to stop. I am sick to my teeth of seeing Crowley quoted that spirits are part of the brain. I don’t care what he said at that time. He was young, inexperienced, and going through a stage of atheism. It is apparent from his life, his diaries, and his later thoughts that Crowley believed in the spiritual world, in discarnate entities, and in magic. His life would have perhaps ended in much more luxury and comfort if he didn’t believe in the spiritual. 

To all the Thelemites who ridicule me, asking “You actually believe in spirits?” Yes, yes I do. I do not proclaim to understand what they are, or even how they function. But my experiences dictate to me that there is something ‘other’ going on when magic is performed with external entities. Too many weird things have happened in a magical circle for me to simply put it down to a psychological projection. In fact, treating these things as a psychological protection can be dangerous at times in my opinion. Furthermore, if you are practicing magic as a form of therapy, just get therapy! You will save time and money. 

Again, I have plenty of experience, and it is my experience that I use as guidance in my own path. I have read almost everything Crowley has written: the good, the bad, and the ugly. I have engaged with Thelema for over a decade, I have been involved in AA, I have studied with other Thelemites, and I have practiced all that time. I have also practiced other traditions, found common ground, and related it back to Thelemic philosophy. I do not need Crowley’s words to back up my opinions any more, and his words will also not undo my opinions either. Especially when his words are misunderstood by the masses, who fail to comprehend his meaning and equally fail to understand his sarcasm. 

So what am I going to do to tackle this problem? To stop the stagnation of this spiritual movement? I cannot moan about it and then proceed to do nothing. I am going to start writing again, I will start sharing my ideas and my practices again. I stopped because the hate I was getting was simply not worth it. I don’t live a dramatic life, I would rather not argue with strangers on the internet. I have much better things to do with my time. So I shall respond to the hate with the most powerful magic of all: silence.