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roguerogerss · 7 months

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Show You How Much I Love You

Pairing: Michael Gray x Reader

W/C: 3.5k

Warnings: SMUT!!, the second half is just sex, bit of a praise kink, talk of injuries and blood (not related to the smut!)

Description: After Michael gets shot, you’ve been visiting him in the hospital every day. He has a realisation on his last day there, and when you get home, he shows you how much he’s missed you.

(took a lil break from writing tommy all the time - he will be back! promise! - and did a lil spin for michael. i’ve been OBSESSED with both of them recently. so proud of the smut in this bc it’s literally only my second full on smut!!! let me know what u think babes! b back with tommy shtuff sooooon)

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You hated the hospital. The building always smelled of antiseptic, slightly bitter, but with the added scent of artificial fragrance contained in soaps and cleaning products. And what was worse, the smell would linger on your clothes and in your hair, even hours after you'd left, and you'd have to bathe after every time you visited, to avoid going to bed smelling like death.

"Morning, Miss L/N." The nurses had gotten to know you over the last five weeks, and they'd always greet you when you came to visit. As much as you hated the hospital, and it's smell, the nurses made your visits very slightly more bareable.

"Good morning, Margaret." You sighed, smoothing your hair down and fixing the fur collar of your coat. "How is he, today?"

"He's had some great news today, ma'am. I think you'll be delighted." Margaret smoothed a hand over your back and then hurried off, the nurses were always on the run. You wondered what news your boyfriend could possibly have gotten that would've delighted you, considering all you'd had the past five weeks was more death, upset, and terrible news.

You climbed the stairs, still fussing over your hair, and your coat, and pulling out a small, pocket mirror to fix your lipstick in. You always ended up going to the hospital dressed like a model, because Michael had told you the first time that seeing you all dressed up had been the only thing he was looking forward to.

You plucked a cigarette from your pocket, and balanced it between your lips as you reached his room, "Miss L/N! No smoking, please! It's not allowed.", You waved the nurse off.

You took a slow drag from your cigarette, filling your lungs, and then pushed the door to Michael's room open. You beamed when you saw him, standing by his bed, something he hadn't done for the entirety of his time in recovery.

He held his arms out when he saw your smile, smiling himself, as though he was presenting a gift to you. "Well?"

"Oh my God, Michael!" You ran for him, giggling as you did, and you were met with a grunt when you dived into his arms. Michael stumbled backwards slightly as he wrapped his arms around you, before regaining his balance. His chest stung in all the places he'd been shot, but he didn't care too much. You looked so happy, something you hadn't been since finding out about the mafia, and he wasn't going to take that away from you.

"Jesus." He laughed at your excitement, "I'm still sore, sweetheart."

"Sorry, I'm sorry, I'm just...You look so much better."

"I feel better. They've been doing physical therapy the past few days, getting me up on my feet, finally got up on my own today."

"Margaret told me you'd had good news, was it this?"

"This, and," He reached behind him and produced a piece of paper from the bedside cabinet. The words "Discharge Notice" were printed in black at the top of the page. "This."

You gasped, "You're getting out? Today?"

"Yes." He nodded, and you clasped a hand over your mouth, ready to squeal with excitement. Michael interrupted, grasping your wrist between his fingers, "But, love, I'd have to stay with you, so it's only if you'll have me. If it'll be too much of a bother, I can stay here-"

"Michael, don't be daft." You moved your hand from your mouth, to press each palm to Michael's cheeks. "Of course I'll have you. It'd be my pleasure."

He sighed and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close, so that your noses were touching. "Are you sure? It's not going to be pretty for the first couple of weeks. Changing bandages, cleaning bullet holes-"

"Michael." You interrupted him quickly, thumb swiping over a small, stitched scar on his cheek. "Of course I'm sure. I mean, it was only a matter of time before we moved in together, anyway, wasn't it? I suppose, it's not under the circumstances we'd like it to have been, but I want to do it."

A comfortable silence fell on the room, Michael was simply smiling, green eyes exploring yours. You ran your fingers over the new scars on his face, and found yourself frowning when you reached a particularly deep one, straight through his eyebrow. He breathed out, "I love you, so much."

You'd never heard anyone say anything with such passion, but Michael had never meant something more in his life. Tommy always spoke about feeling like you'd been pardoned by God when you should've died, and everything else being extra, borrowed time. He didn't think he could live another day without helping you to feel exactly how much you meant to him.

"I love you too, Michael." He was hardly listening to you, just thinking about things he needed to say to you.

"More than anything, you know that, don't you?" He continued. You looked at him, eyes full of concern.

"What's going on?" You were convinced there was something really wrong that he wasn't telling you about.

"Nothing's going on, my love." Michael smoothed your hair down comfortingly, chewing on the side of his lip while he thought about what to say next. "I nearly died, Y/N. I should've died, John did, and he didn't get to tell Esmé that he loved her again. I need you to know what you mean to me. Need you to know how much I love you."

He let his forehead fall against yours, sighed, and squeezed his eyes shut. Tears were threatening to fall, and he knew you'd get upset if you saw him cry. But you'd already sensed he was unsettled, and you pressed your lips to his cheek, and then to his nose, and then to his lips, he loved how loving you were.

"I'm going to show you how much I love you, how much you mean to me. As soon as I can, I'll help you around the house, I'll do everything I can for you." He clasped his hands together at the back of your neck, holding you far enough away that he could really look at you, breaths slightly shaky. "And when I'm better, really better, I mean, I want to marry you."

Your eyes widened, you supposed you might've looked scared to anyone who didn't know you too well. "Michael-"

"I'm serious. If I asked you, right now, to be my wife-"

You shook your head, a grin making it's way onto your face now. "Michael-"

"Will you marry me?" He sounded so serious. You'd spoken about getting married before, and you'd both meant what you'd said, but you hadn't expected he'd ask you so soon. You'd been together just over a year, but you were both still young, and nearly four months of your relationship had just been casual nights together.

"Are you proposing to me?" You were really smiling now. As much as you were young, and as much as you hadn't quite expected this, you were excited. Of course you wanted to marry Michael.

"If that's what you want this to be." He was smiling down at you, grasping both of your hands in his own. He’d have gotten down on one knee if he could’ve, and he felt a slight pang of guilt knowing this wasn’t quite the proposal you’d probably hoped for.

But you didn’t care. Growing up, you’d wanted a big wedding, with a big proposal beforehand, but having someone who you loved as much as you loved Michael, he could’ve proposed to you at a funeral and you’d have said yes. “Well, if that's what's happening, then yes."

"You'll marry me?" The surprise in his voice was completely unmasked. He’d had no idea you’d actually say yes.

"Yes. Yes, Michael, I'll marry you." You felt yourself doing a little jump up and down out of excitement.

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious!"

Michael arms were around your waist, now, picking you up from the ground and kissing you, completely ignoring the burn in his chest. Your lips always felt made for eachother when he kissed you, and this time was no different, if not even better. You hadn’t been kissing him half as much as you normally would, what with everything going on, and it almost felt desperate, needy.

"Tomorrow, I'll go out, and I'll buy you a ring, alright? Tommy owes me money, I'll use that to buy you the biggest one I can find." You laughed at Michael's excitement. "But this is official. We're engaged, love."

"We're engaged." You repeated, tears in your eyes, and let Michael take your face in his hands and kiss you again. You couldn't quite believe what had just happened - truth be told, neither could Michael - and you certainly didn't ever expect it to happen in a hospital room, but you were excited nonetheless.

"Come on, I've got all of my things packed, let's go home."

As soon as you stepped through the door to your apartment, you were apologising to Michael for the "state of the place". You weren't entirely used to having him round, and so felt you had to explain the little messes that you'd often leave laying around.

"Sorry, it's a bit of a mess. I've not been home too often. And it's not as big as yours, I know-"

Michael stopped you before you rambled on about how the fireplace wasn't lit, and you hadn't washed your dishes from that morning, and how you'd left all of your makeup out on the bathroom vanity because you hadn't time to put it away.

"Stop it." He soothed you, pressing a finger to your lips and looking around at your ground floor flat. It certainly wasn't much, but he actually liked your house better than his own. It was smaller, and therefore cozier, and he found the looks he got from neighbours the morning after you'd slept together funny, knowing they'd heard you screaming his name the night before. "It's perfect."

You smiled, half-heartedly, and gestured to the living room doorway, "Here, you can lay down on the sofa, and I can make some lunch. What would you like? Oh, and when do I have to change your bandages, do you remember?" You swung open the kitchen cabinet, searching through the groceries you'd bought the day before. "I'm not sure what I could make. I can go to the store, I think it should still be open-"

"Love, stop." Michael stepped closer to you, hands settling on each of your shoulders. "Just take a minute, calm down, we've got time."

"I know. I know, I just-"

"Don't." He let a hand slip down your arm and into your own, "You've said yes to marrying me today, I'm very much happy dealing with your unwashed dishes, and you can make me lunch any time, now, okay? I'm here to stay."

"Come on, fiancé." Michael grinned at you. "Lay with me, please? Missed you."

You sighed, and turned to close the cabinet door behind you. You were quick to stress yourself out, and normally you'd argue that you couldn't just lay down and forget about the things you needed to do, but you'd missed him too. "Okay."

Michael led you down the hallway and into your bedroom, he'd been here before, but you'd spend most of your time together at his house or at the office, so it felt strange having him in your bedroom. He was one to make himself at home, and today was no different. As soon as he reached your bed, the shirt that he was wearing was unbuttoned and on the floor, and he was sprawled out on top of the sheets, gesturing for you to join him.

You tried to lay down next to him, but he had other plans, hands reaching out to grip your hips and pull you on top of him, one knee on either side of his torso. "Michael!" You giggled.

"Oh, come on. I haven't had any time alone with you in over a month." His hands started to make their way under your dress, and you almost let him, until you snapped back to reality and noticed the bandage wrapped around his body.

"I know." You wanted to, you really wanted to, but you found yourself smacking his hand away before he was able to get past your thigh. "But you're still recovering."

"I'm fit enough." He raised an eyebrow at you, and you were certainly considering it. He could definitely be very convincing, when he wanted to.

"Are you sure?" You stuck your bottom lip out, pouting at him.

"I'm sure, baby." His hands found their way to your waist, and he was looking up at you with what you could only describe as hunger in his eyes, jaw clenched. He made it so hard for you to say no. "Come on, let me prove it to you. Let me show you how much I love you.”

"I don't know, Michael-"

"Please, sweetheart." He interrupted you, "Missed your body. Been so desperate for you."

Hearing him say he was desperate for you had a knot growing in your stomach. You sighed, weighing up the options you had, but ultimately deciding that you'd both be unable to think about anything else if you didn't have sex.

"Okay. Alright, but if you feel like you need to stop, you stop. Okay?"

"I will. Thank you, darling." You could feel him hardening through his trousers, and it had you biting down hard on your lips, having been waiting for this moment to come since he could sit up straight. He'd teased you while in the hospital, talked dirty, touched you every now and again, but it was hard to find a time when a nurse wasn't going to walk in and scold him for being too active, and Polly wasn't going to come in for a visit. "Now, come here."

He pushed himself up, back against the headboard, and dipped his head to connect your lips. It was fast, rough, a clash of teeth and tongue and lips, he'd missed you, and you were making it clear that you'd thought about him for the entire time he'd been in the hospital.

His hands roamed your back, pulling you closer so that you were chest to chest. He could feel his wounds burning when your torso collided with his, but the taste of your lips on his and the feeling of having you so close again quickly dissolved any discomfort he felt.

He was so needy for you, hips bucking upwards to meet yours, hands sliding down to grip your hips, you thought it was the hottest you'd ever seen him. "Fuck, Michael." You gasped out as his lips found your neck, head falling back.

He groaned at the sound of you moaning for him, he'd been waiting to touch you for so long. "Need you, pretty girl. We've got plenty of time for other things later, but I need to be inside you right now."

You didn't need to say another word, you simply nodded and helped him to unbuckle his belt while you hiked your dress up above your waist. His fingers grazed over your lingerie, and you mewled, the feeling almost too much. "Jesus, baby, you're so wet already. Haven't even done anything yet."

"Missed you so much, Michael." You breathed out, an answer to his statement, and simply a statement in itself.

"Missed you too, princess." You loved when he called you pet names.

You watched as he freed himself from his underwear, and his cock sprung up, hard and ready for you. "You're hard already." You mocked his words, and he laughed.

Neither of you wasted any time with foreplay, your panties were ripped off and on the floor with one flick of Michael's wrist, and he was lifting you off of him slightly, and guiding you back down onto his cock.

The feeling of him sliding into you again was euphoric for both of you. You hadn't had sex in more than a month, as opposed to usually being borderline sex addicts, and you knew you wouldn't last long.

You both let out pornographic moans as he bottomed out, Michael's face said it all. His mouth hung open, eyebrows knitted together, eyes wide, you were so tight, he could've came at the feeling of his cock stretching you out.

"Fuck, not gonna last long, honey." His forehead fell against yours and he screwed his eyes shut, just revelling in how good you felt around him. "Are you alright?" He asked, hand holding and stroking your waist lovingly. He was big, and you were so used to him before that you hardly needed any time to adjust, but with being away from eachother for so long, he was almost too much to handle.

"I'm okay. Give me a second. Feel so full." You were breathing heavily, shifting around. It wasn't uncomfortable as such, just a lot to take.

Michael ran his fingers through your hair, soothing you and pressing kisses to your forehead. "Taking me so well, baby. Just take your time."

"Fuck," You moaned, you loved when he was sweet to you in bed. You'd told him months ago that you thought it might've been your biggest turn on. "You can move."

Michael looked up at you, just for an extra check that you were truly alright, and, upon finding no sign that you weren't, bucked his hips up to meet yours. You almost screamed, he knew exactly what spots to hit, and he did every time without fail.

You bounced on him, his hands helping you, lifting you off of him and bringing you straight back down at new angles every time. "You feel so good, Mike."

"Fuck, good girl. That's a good girl." Michael let his forehead drop onto your collarbone, watching your tits bounce up and down. You were so beautiful, he often wondered how he'd gotten so lucky. "Tell me how good I'm making you feel."

"So, so good. Missed your cock so much. Love it so much." Your words were slightly slurred, eyes starting to droop. He loved watching you, how much of a mess you'd get, just from riding his cock.

His hands found your tits, massaging them and twisting your nipples, which always had you screaming for him, and today was no different. "Feel good?"

"Feels fucking amazing." He thrust into you at just the right angle, which had you gasping and digging your nails into his back, leaving little red half moons on his shoulder blades. "Oh, right there, Mike.”

"Shit, baby, are you close?" You were clenching around him so tightly, "Can feel it, you're close."

"I'm so close." You moaned, you were certain your upstairs neighbours would hear you, the walls and ceilings were thin, and Michael was making you yell out in pleasure.

"Me too. Almost there, sweetheart. Hang on for me." He increased his speed, making it even harder for you to hold on, and making your moans fall from your lips even louder than before.

"I don't think I can, Mike." Your legs were shaking like crazy, and you could feel his dick tensing inside of you. You needed to come so badly.

"I said hold on. You can hold it." His face was stern as he said it, dominant side coming out as he grabbed your hips and slammed you down onto him, bucking his hips at the same time. He was going to make this so good for you.

"Fuck, Michael, please." You threw your head back. You felt his cock twitch, and a loud moan come from him, he was going to come.

"Alright, baby, come. Come with me."

Your throat was hoarse from moaning as loudly as you were, but it didn't stop you from screaming his name as your walls tightened around him and you came undone. The feeling of his cum painting your insides never got old, always made you feel like you could go at least another few rounds.

"Oh my God." You panted, collapsing onto his chest as he lay back on the bed. You both lay there, breathing heavily, sweaty messes, for a few minutes. You didn't think you could move very far, your legs were shaking against him.

"Jesus, have I missed this." Michael kissed the top of your head through quick, harsh breaths.

"I've missed this so much." You agreed, heart pounding.

You lifted your head, just enough to see that there were a few speckles of blood seeping through the bandage that was wrapped around his torso. "You're bleeding, baby. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." He nodded, and reached over to your bedside cabinet to grab the small alarm clock that sat there. It read two o’clock. Michael grinned at you.

"Time to change the bandages."

#michael gray x reader #michael gray #michael gray smut #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders #thomas shelby #tommy shelby smut #peaky blinders smut #peaky blinders x reader #finn cole #peaky blinders fic

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violetrainbow412-blog · 6 months

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Day 20: reading together

Masterlist flufftober 🎀

Reblog if you liked it!

“If I didn't love you so much, I'd probably be strangling you right now,” you muttered, watching from your spot on the couch as Spencer broke the spine of the book he had just gotten.

Although you two were very skilled readers, which had brought you together in the first place, your book care habits were very different. You could stand him writing in the books and bending the pages, but the first time you saw the man break the spine of a book you almost screamed to stop him. You were the type who opened the pages only as much as necessary, loaded them into a special bag, and used only post-its and pretty bookmarkers in them.

“I already told you that this is more comfortable and gives life to the books”

“It doesn't give them life, it kills them” you sobbed dramatically, while you raised your feet a little so that he could take a seat on the couch and once he was, he took care of placing your legs on his lap “What is this one about?”

"Physics. I want some distraction”

“Oh, sure,” you laughed ironically, as if it were common to read physics books to clear your mind.

You had been reading, for a couple of weeks, The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks, because the movie was one of your favorites in your youth and you wanted to know how much the book delved into the story of both lovers.

You were used to these kinds of moments with him, because since you had started living together your literary discipline had improved, so you tried to continue with your reading while he started his.

Everything was fine until you tensed when you felt his hand coming down from the cover to hold your leg firmly. You looked down from your book and a shiver ran through you when you noticed that he was able to hold all the flesh of your limb with those hands; big, calloused, and warm, always so expert at touching you just the way you wanted. But Spencer was so focused on the book that he didn't seem aware of what he was doing to you, not even when he started to slowly stroke you with his thumb.

You tried to shake the distraction from your mind and focused on the printed lines, the only sound being the turning of the paper pages in your lover's book. Spencer's fingers traced patterns and drummed on your skin, to the point where you got used to it and stopped paying attention to the tickling he was doing with it.

“What happened to you here?” Spencer asked suddenly, feeling interrupted by curiosity to know the origin of the bump his fingers had touched. You closed your book slightly and looked up to see what he was talking about.

"That? I think it was from a fall when I was little.”

“Sometimes I'm surprised to think how many things I still don't know about you,” he murmured, with unexpected sentimentality. His hand went up and down your leg while he maintained a thoughtful attitude “You are like a book; I think I know you well enough and when I look at you again you have a different meaning or I find something new about you”

“At least I hope you don't break my spine” you laughed and you heard him laugh too. You readjusted yourself on the couch until you were sitting next to him and you placed a kiss on his cheek, so he took the opportunity to surround you from the side “No one had ever compared me to a book.”

“I like being innovative,” he said, quite proud of himself, feeling how you fit better against him.

Once again one of his hands remained busy on your body and with the other he kept the book open, taking a little more time than usual to turn the pages. You carefully opened your reading and continued to enjoy the tragic romance the story told, having your own happy romance at your side.

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#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #dr spencer reid #matthew gray gubler #spencer reid x you #flufftober 2023 #prompt list #writing challenge #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid drabble

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peterman-spideyparker · 2 years

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Pure (Matt Murdock x Fem!Virgin!Reader)

Author’s Note: Well, everyone, I’ve strapped on my slut pants for this one. How I got this idea, I don’t know. All I know is that I had it, wrote it, needed to take a cold shower in the middle of writing it, and finished it. I think it’s even a little funnier after this last episode of She-Hulk, especially since I wrote it before I saw it. Is this self-serving? Yes. Is this also the perfect alternative fic option for me to include a gif of Bed Matt™️ when I wanted to but didn’t for another fic? Also yes. Enjoy, sluts (affectionate)! :)

Summary: After Matt overhears a conversation between you and Karen, his feelings that he holds for you already take on a new life, and his thoughts won’t rest until he sees them through.

Warnings: Fluff, mutual friends pining but neither of them know it until they know it, swearing, smut (virgin reader, nervous/excited reader, oral - f!receiving, fingering, sloppy kisses, P in V, praise kink! praise kink!, soft!dom!Matt (did I use that right?), Communication King Murdock, light corruption kink?, unprotected sex--if I’m gonna do a corruption kink, I might as well go all the way on it), cutesy cuteness because I just love seeing Matt happy.

Other Characters: Foggy Nelson and Karen Page

Word Count: 5,957

Matt’s not sure what word he’d use to describe you—one single term seems impossible to ascribe. Every time he tries to think of one, it never seems to capture your essence. You’re the furthest thing from selfish, and you only want to help those around you. You’re like light, a soothing breeze on a warm summer day.

One day, he’s talking with Father Lantom, finally having taken the old priest up on his offer of a latte at a chat. When the word “pure” falls from his lips, Matt immediately thinks of you—your kindness, your laugh, your optimism, and your heart. Everything about you is pure, and only enhances every last thing that you do.

But when Matt overhears you talking with Karen the following week, both Foggy and him up to their necks in casework, he comes to realize just how true that connotation is.

“So,” you hum, a lithe tone up-pitching your voice. “How’s everything going with you and Frank.”

Karen blushes and laughs, shaking her head as she files paperwork while you print. “We’re doing good. We went to Coney Island last night.”

“Cute. Did he win you a giant stuffed animal?”

“Actually, yeah. A giant frog.”

“That’s so sweet, I think I’m gonna get a cavity from the story. A full night just playing carnival games?”

“Well, we kind of cut it short. We went back to my place, and, well.”

It takes a second for it to click for you. “Oh.”

“C’mon, (Y/N)! You know how it is. That giddy excitement, especially when you haven’t had a chance to see one another in a long time. You get handsy with each other, he whispers something in your ear . . .”

You nervously clear your throat, and Matt can hear you nod your head as you work to organize the papers printing on the braille machine. Your heart is racing. “Y-Yeah,” you breathe. “Of course.”

Karen notices your shift in tone. “(Y/N), you have done it, haven’t you?”

“Well, um . . .”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. I—,” she tries to backpedal.

“No, Kare, it’s fine. It’s just something I’ve done yet, that’s all.”

“Can I ask why?” she asks hesitantly.

Matt can hear you shrug.

“It’s a big step,” you say softly. “And I don’t know . . .”

“Is it like a religion thing, or—?”

“No.” You pause, unsure how to explain your mentality, mortified when your brain plays a ‘What if?’ situation with the idea and your crush on Matt. “If I’m not good at it or . . . I don’t know. It’s the idea that they could just leave the next day because they don’t like me anymore or because I wasn’t good enough. I’ve been rejected for less. I don’t want that to be added to the list of reasons why. To know that they’d stay is important for me. So far, none of them have or have wanted to.”

Matt feels his heart sink while Karen shuffles, unsure of what to say.

“I know the right guy is out there for you,” she settles on. “And I’m sure when you find him and when you’re ready, you’ll know, and it’ll be great. So great, you won’t be able to walk right.”

You let out a soft sigh; with your dating history, you’re not entirely convinced that her words are true, but you appreciate her sentiment. “A girl can only hope, right?”

He’s so caught up in what he just heard, Matt barely registers your footsteps moving towards his office. A gentle knock on his door brings him into the present and away from his thoughts.

“I’ve got those files for you,” you say. “I can put it in the case folder if you want and you can get to them when you’re ready.”

Matt clears his throat and straightens. “I can take them,” he says with a little tilt of his head and a smile. “Thanks.”

“No problem, Matt,” you say, placing them in his open hand before you walk back to your desk.

After overhearing your conversation, Matt can’t prevent his mind from wandering. He’s thought about maybe asking you out before, but he’s been worried that with everything he is, everything he does, he’d ruin your friendship. But now that he had overheard this conversation? Not only does he wonder what it’d be like to kiss you, but now to feel your body under his, completely at his mercy as he is the first person to explore you in the most intimate of ways, his hands being the only thing to give you support as he ruts into you, feeling you clench him tightly. Having you sit in his lap, bouncing up and down, rocking back and forth, your face buried in his neck as you moan and whine just for him. Bending you over his desk, leaning over you to kiss down your spine, marking up your flesh . . .

“Are you even paying attention to a word in saying?” Foggy says. Matt couldn’t tell God Himself the point at which his best friend and partner entered his office he’s so lost in thought.

“Sorry, no,” Matt says sheepishly.

“Who is it this time? That short lawyer with the curly hair heading the new GLK/H office in SoHo?”

He chuckles nervously and shakes his head. “No, not her.”

“Well, I expect the full details when you’re a little less horny.”

“Sure, Fog,” he appeases. “What’s up?”

“I have some things for the discovery on the Christiansen case. Turns out the McNeils were a little less honest than they lead us to believe . . .”

“Thanks for staying late,” Matt says, casually leaning against his office door frame, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie long gone somewhere in his office with a few buttons undone.

“No problem, Matt,” you smile, adjusting at your desk to turn and smile at him. “It’s what I’m here for.”

“You always do more than you’re ‘here for’, (Y/N).” He pauses and licks his lips. “You know how much I appreciate you, right? Everything that you do, both for your job here and what you do outside of work.”

“Thanks, Matty,” you say softly, his words making a warm feeling spread across your skin.

He leans away from the doorframe, slowly walking toward where you sit, his hands in his pockets. “You want to get out of here? We could grab a bite, if you want.” His fingers graze over his watch. “It’s late, and I can’t go starving my favorite employee.”

You laugh, the pads of your chair gliding across the floor as you stand up and move toward him. “Don’t let Foggy hear you say that.”

“Eh, he doesn’t count. We’re partners. You’ve stepped up in an incredibly huge way since Karen started at the Bulletin full-time. Nelson and Murdock would’ve sunk without you.”

A blush burns at your cheeks as you dip your head. “You’re giving me too much credit, Matt. It’s all you and Foggy.”

Matt lifts your chin with his finger, gently urging you to look at his face, to stare at his eyes behind his the red lenses of his glasses.

“You’re too good for everyone, you know that? Pure,” he says softly, his voice hitting a low register. “If people can’t recognize that, they don’t deserve you.”

You’re afraid that your words will catch in your throat while your heart races. “Are you saying that you deserve me?” you whisper.

“I’d love to think I do, but, you’re far too good for me. But I’d like to stick around—find that answer out for sure.” He takes a half step closer, feeling your body heat pour onto his frame. “Tell me to stop,” Matt breathes, his voice hitting a sinful timbre as his hot breath tickles your skin. “Just tell me to stop, and I will.”

“Matthew, I . . .” you whisper, your lashes fluttering as you try to keep your thoughts straight.

You shouldn’t. He’s your boss.

He’s your friend.

But you want him.

And he wants you. First and foremost, he wants you for who you are and how you make him feel.

You’ve never felt this before. You’ve never had your heart race so fast and your brain short circuit like this.

“Words, angel.”

Those two words make you lose all self control as you crash your lips to Matt’s, your arms flinging around his neck, your fingers running through his hair and tugging at the strands. Matt moans against your lips, pulling you impossibly close as he leans forward to meet your kisses. Your bodies spin around, pinning you between him and the wall as you exchange passionate embraces. The metal of Matt’s glasses creak between the force of your kisses. Matt’s tongue deftly slides into your mouth, needing to taste every inch of you. Your noses smush together as Matt tightens his grip on your waist, keeping your body in place as he pushes against you. This feeling of his hips against yours is enough to send goosebumps all over your body, parting your lips in a moan that allow him to capture your bottom lip between his, his teeth tugging at the flesh. You’re both breathing heavily as you stand in the office.

“I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Matt admits, tucking some hair being your ear. His hand gently slides down to your neck, holding onto you softly before leaning forward to kiss you again. His tongue parts your lips once more, making the kiss a little sloppy and wet. His lips are as soft and plush as a new pillow, easily clouding your thoughts and judgement.

“Matt, wait,” you stop him, your hands on his chest to create some distance between the two of you, your chest suddenly feeling too small for your beating heart.

Oh no, he thinks. I fucked up, and I fucked up bad.

“(Y/N), listen, I’m sorry, I—,” he starts, but you halt him with some soft taps to his chest.

“No, Matt. It’s just . . . Well, I’ve never . . . I haven’t . . .” You dip your head, embarrassed at the moment, just like you have felt every time you’ve gotten to this point before. Unlike the other times, however, there is so much more weighing on this for you—this is Matt. “I don’t want to just be a fling for you, Matt. I can’t be a fling. I . . . I care about you too much.”

Matt hears your heart race faster, your entire being on the verge of becoming a complete and utter mess. You’re not sure at what point you started to have feelings for Matt, but you know that they’re there and they’re strong—the fact that he even reciprocates them in the slightest is exciting and terrifying. But at the same time, you know that Matt has quite a reputation, and you don’t want to be just another name on a long list of ladies.

Matt moves one of your hands directly above his heart, holding your other firmly in his. “You could never be a fling. You’re so much more to me than any relationship I’ve had before. It’s only you. And I want to show you just how much I mean that.”

Matt’s words wash over you like warm water from your shower head, His heart beats steadily with each word, the posture of your hand on his chest a silent, wonderful reassurance that he means everything he says. You capture his lips with yours, the embrace languid and tender but absolutely brimming with burning desire. He smiles down at you after your lips part, his nose brushing against yours. “Then I guess the question is if you can keep your hands to yourself long enough for us to make it back to my place.”

The door to his loft isn’t even closed before you bring your lips back to his, pulling him by his shirt collar and into your body, snaking you hands over his shoulders and onto the back of his neck when you feel you have him close enough. Matt’s hands slide down your body and under your thighs, lifting them up around his waist. You moan in delight into his mouth, his lips moving to your neck to nip, suck, and lick at the think skin that you are all too eagerly offering him. He tosses his glasses on the table by the door as he walks your bodies from the entryway to the bedroom. Matt’s attempt to gently place you down on the mattress is skewed by his own growing desire, turning the motion into more of a toss, your body bouncing up and down on the furniture.

Matt kneels at the edge of the bed, volleying kisses back and forth on the inside of your legs. Pushing up the fabric of your flowing skirt, he gains access to your thighs, becoming a little more aggressive with his ministrations, nibbling at the skin, licking down the little stings that accompany it. You let out breathy little sighs, each press of Matt’s lips against your skin making your heart race in a glorious fashion. Each kiss moves higher up your leg, spreading new branches of goosebumps and warmth all over.

That when you feel it—an overpowering wetness between you legs, trapped in your panties.

“Matt,” you breathe. Internally panicking that you’ve started your period far before you were supposed to, you wanted to push Matt away to save your embarrassment. But Matt knows exactly what really happened—it’s a sign of your enjoyment, your eagerness for him, your want. You really are so pure. Part of him feels guilty for making a move on you like this no matter how readily you accepted him, no matter how you both feel for one another, but the thought of being your first, being the one to tarnish that pristine virtue, to make you his, it makes him rock hard.

His hands snake up your thighs and push them wide open, letting your scent hit through his nose, permitting through your panties.

“Matt,” you try again, begging God above or whatever supreme being is there to spare you any further embarrassment.

“You smell so pretty for me, angel,” he groans, brushing his nose on your clothed core. “Can’t imagine how you taste.”

Matt presses soft kisses to your clothed core, pulling a whine from your lips.

“Your panties are so soft,” he mutters, nipping at you through the soft, thin fabric some more. “I bet your cunt is even softer.”

Dragging his lips up your panties, he grasps the hem of your underwear with his teeth, slowly pulling it down your hips and off your body. You watch the movement as Matt seductively works, and you’re shocked to find the inside of your panties void of any red color. Instead there is just a large damp spot in the middle and a long string of a clear something coming from you and to the fabric. Once your underwear is midway down your thighs, Matt uses his calloused fingers to slide them off of your body, letting the fabric pool on the floor between his bent legs and the bed.

“I want you to tell me how it feels,” Matt whispers, his hot breath fanning across your glistening folds as his nose brushes up against the top of your pubic mound, placing a little kiss there in anticipation. “I want to hear those pretty little sounds fall from your lips, okay?”

You don’t even get a proper chance to really comprehend or answer his question. Matt’s lips are on you in a second, pressing a soft, open kiss right on a special bundle of nerves that make you moan and your heart sharply skip a beat.

“You like that, sweetheart?” he smirks, gently grazing his hands over your exposed thighs. “That feel nice, hm?”

“Yes,” you breathe, looking down at him, the sight of his face between your legs sending you absolutely wild. “Do it again.”

A devilish smile grows on his lips before he complies to your request, this time adding light sucks to the way he wraps his plush lips around your clit. You can’t help the needy moans that fall out of your mouth, keening for more attention from his lips. You can feel Matt’s lips pull into a big smile as he continues to work his mouth. He pulls away for half of a second before licking a stripe up your folds. You whine, your back arching off of his mattress while your head tosses to the side. It’s like you’re not in control of your body while Matt’s lips are on you, twisting and turning into the pleasure. Matt has to use his forearm and one of his strong hands to pin your hips down to the mattress as he eats you out like a starved man. The combination of licks, sucks, and kisses turn you into a whimpering and moaning mess. When he lightens the embraces, you think you’re getting off easily. What you don’t expect is for a finger from Matt’s free hand to lightly brush up against your glistening folds. You suck in a hiss at the sensation, causing Matt to glance back up toward you while his finger continues to move up and down.

The sight is something glorious. His fluffy brown hair is disheveled and the tip of his nose, lips, and chin are covered in a marvelous slick from having his face buried between your legs. His honey hazel eyes are warm as they focus just to the right of you, making you feel safe as you cross a boundary you can never come back from.

“If you enjoyed that, angel, I think you’ll like what comes next,” Matt teases, his voice low with lust.

Dragging his fingers back down, you feel him at your opening. His fingers, absolutely covered in your arousal, gently push your lips open as he feels you; then, he carefully prods your entrance with his middle finger, pushing in slowly. Your eyes flutter shut and you moan as you feel him, slowly moving his finger in and out of you.

“Tell me how that feels, angel,” he urges, unable to stop himself from pressing a gentle kiss to your hipbone.

“G-good,” you exhale, closing your eyes to focus on the way that he manages to sneak his finger a little bit deeper in you each time.

“And do you like this better?” Matt punctuates his question with a curl of his finger, the tip of his digit scraping against your wrinkly walls and hitting something soft and spongey that draws an intense moan from you. A deep chuckle rolls from Matt’s lips and coats your warm body like honey. “Is that a yes, sweetheart? I need you to try and use your words for me.”

“Better,” you whine, writhing against his arm. “More.”

“More.” The way he coos my words back to you is somewhere between a question and amusement. Regardless of his exact tone, Matt carefully slides another finger in you. Rolling your head from one side to another, you let out a low groan, basking in how amazing the sensation feels as Matt manages to hit something so spongey and wonderful, increasing the pleasure with each ministration. You can’t but help the way that your toes curl and your back arches when he puts his mouth back on you. Your hand shoots towards his head, fingers tugging at his hair to keep him close. You’re an absolute mess as Matt works you, and you have no idea how or what to focus on more—his fingers or his mouth. What does begin to register, however, is a tightness in your tummy, a fluttering. You’re not exactly sure what’s going on, but you know that the longer that Matt works, the way that his touches set your body on fire, the more prominent the feeling gets.

You wine as he removes his fingers from you, his mouth kissing everywhere but where he had been thoroughly inspecting the real estate. Pushing your dress up and off your body, Matt wastes no time kissing as much of your gradually exposed skin as possible. Once the fabric is pushed over your head and off of your arms, Matt peppers kisses all over your collarbone and neck as he pulls your bra down and off, just avoiding your lips as he changes locations.

“You’re going so good, sweetheart,” he praises, his hands finding a home on your waist as he finally brings his lips to yours. “But that feeling you had? That good one in your tummy? I want to be in you when it finally lets go. Will you let me do that, angel?”

Matt barely has a chance to finish his sentence before you blurt “yes” and bring his mouth back on yours. The kiss is deep and needy, and he lets you undo his shirt and feel all over his sculpted figure. You don’t know what takes over you, but all you know is that you need Matt in every way, shape, and form possible. Matt finishes the work you started, wriggling off his white button down as he paints kisses all over your chest. His senses are in overdrive as he comes in contact with the supple skin of your breasts, his nose filling with a cocktail of your fruity body wash, your skin, and the thin sheen of sweat that has emerged on your body. While the noises you make as you move against his sheets is a beautiful symphony, the way your heart sings for him is the best thing he has heard in his entire life. Its rhythm is one of elation and tenderness—pure.

There’s that word again.

Even as you lay under Matt, completely at his mercy as the two of you engage in an activity that should pollute the very core of the term, but still manage to embody the fullest extent of the word.

As the thought crosses his mind as he brushes the tip of his nose up your skin to rejoin your lips, that’s when the thought comes to him.

You’re it for him.

“I thought I was the one who’s supposed to get flustered,” you chuckle breathily, your hand moving to caress his cheek.

A smile pulls at Matt’s lips, bringing those beautiful crinkles out for your enjoyment. “I just want to remember this,” he explains softly before pulling you in for a lusty kiss, a moan falling from his lips into you. Matt gives your swollen and tingly skin a few more tender kisses before leaning back on his knees, undoing his belt and ridding himself of all fabric below the waist.

You suck in a gasp when you see his cock out, hard, painfully taut, and leaking. All for you. Matt shifts his weight to his left, twisting his body to reach for the nightstand. You take his hand in both of yours, preventing him from going anywhere.

“Angel, I—,” he starts, but you give his hand a squeeze.

“Matt, I want this,” you keen as you try to calm your excited breathing. Everything feels right. “I want you.” You pull him back into you, and he lowers himself over your body so his hair tuft flops in front.

“Are you sure?” God above, is his voice so soft when he says that question. It’s brimmed with excitement, affection, tenderness, and nerves.

“I’m sure,” you confirm as his thumb gently strokes back and forth on your cheek. The pad of his digit roams to your bottom lip, letting him feel just how soft it is. You open your mouth slightly, and Matt can’t help but slide his finger in, letting you capture it and envelope it in warmth. Now, it’s Matt’s turn to moan as he feels your tongue swirl around his finger, letting his mind wander to what your mouth would be link around his cock.

That question will have to be answered another time.

Right now, he wants nothing more than to be buried as far as he can possibly get in you.

Pulling out his finger, he presses one more kiss to your lips before adjusting himself between your spread legs. You've gotten even wetter for him, if that's at all possible, and the smell of it drives him up a wall.

"I'm gonna go slow, okay?" he tells you. "I want to hear those beautiful nosies from you, angel, but you need to stop me if it hurts and you need some time. Can I hear you promise me that?"

"Promise," you whisper, your heart racing in an out of control pace. Matt takes one of your hands in his, lacing his fingers with yours in an effort to soothe you.

"Good girl," he coos. You feel a deep blush burn at your cheeks and your heart race as you squeeze his hand involuntarily. "You like that, huh? You like when I call you my good girl?" Just like earlier in the night, your brain short circuits when the name falls from his lips once more. "Oh, I think l'm gonna have fun with that," he teases, bringing your entwined hands to his lips for a kiss.

Carefully, Matt moves forward, and you can feel the head of his cock press against your opening. He pauses for a beat before he continues to press forward, making you a whimpering mess with each movement. With each gentle push into you, your pleasure grows.

"Wait," you squeak when the burning stretch becomes too much. "Hold on a second."

"That's my good girl," he praises. "Doing what I asked, using your words. Tell me when you're ready for more, angel."

As you take your time to adjust, Matt brings your wrist and forearm up to his lips, kissing, sucking, and nipping at the skin, licking down each mark he makes in an effort to soothe the sting.

"More," you swallow.

"Kisses, angel?" he smiles against your skin. "Or cock?"

"Cock," you breathe. "I want more."

Planting a kiss smack dab in the middle of your palm, Matt continues moving his hips forward slowly, letting out a low grunt as he pushes deeper in you.

"Oh, God, Matt," you moan, the sting of intrusion having turned into something only of pleasure. "Oh, so good.”

"So perfect, sweetheart," he sighs as his face controls in pleasure that matches your own. A low rumble falls from his chest when he bottoms out in you, somehow managing to fit all the way inside.

"Talk to me," he hums as he leans back over your body, kissing up the curve of your side and up and over your breasts, up the column of your neck, and finally to your lips.

"Move," you beg, tugging his bottom lip with your teeth before you press kisses up his jaw and to his ear. If that's what him pushing in felt like, you want it all. Over and over and over. "I-I need you to move."

A blissed-out smirk falls across Matt's lips before he kisses you hungrily, one hand resting on the side of your neck while the other weaves through your hair in the back of your head.

"You're doing such a good job taking my cock like that," he praises as he slowly beings to set a rhythm, the drag of his length against you unlike anything you have felt before. "Such a good girl for me, letting me spread you wide and take you. God, angel, you’re doing so good, taking me all the way like that, nice and deep.”

How Matt is forming coherent sentences is fully beyond you at this point. Maybe it’s because he’s done this before, maybe it solely something he’s doing to keep you calm as he pushes through his own pleasure.

“So tight, angel,” he grunts, his hands sliding up your thighs towards your hips. “Oh, you feel so good. Fuck.”

You moan and whimper with each one of Matt’s thrusts, and you yank him down on top of you, desperate to feel every last inch of him against you. He groans but quickly lets out a little chuckle, thrown off and endeared by your excitement as he cages your body below his.

“You like that, sweetheart? Feel good?”

“Y-Yes,” you moan, moving your hands along his incredibly soft skin. You paint a trail of kisses all along his shoulders, collarbones, and neck while he keeps on rocking into you. His hot breath tickles your skin as his beard brushes goosebumps all over your body while he tries to match you embraces. Matt whispers and grunts little praises into your skin, never faltering to let you know how good you’re doing for him.

“M-Matt,” you whine, your nails digging little crescents into his back. “S-Shit! Mmm!”

“Words,” he grunts, his ability for full sentences now starting to escape him.

“God, you’re so deep!” you cry, your eyes fluttered shut as you absorb the pleasure he gives you as your words being to slur together. “So big.”

Matt tunes into your body, listening to how the blood rushes through your veins down to where your bodies join together and your heart races. He knows you’re not going to last much longer.

“Angel,” he pants. “Angel, it’s okay.”

“Matt!” you cry, your voice curving up in pitch. You’re so close, he can taste it—and it drives him wild.

“I know, angel, I know. You’re gonna feel so g—fuck, that’s nice. So good for me.”

“Matt, I—.”

“‘M right here,” he assures with a kiss. “Right here. Let go for me, angel. Let me hear you.”

With a few more thrusts, an intense pleasure rips through your body, unlike anything you have felt before, and far better than what you’ve ever experienced. Your hips buck up to meet Matt’s while your legs latch onto his waist. Matt up above you is the only thing keeping you from thrashing around in euphoria. You hold onto him for dear life, your hands mussing his hair as he buries his face in your neck, moaning as he chases his own release and spills into you. He forces his hips to keep moving fast as he cums, desperate to make sure that your first orgasm is memorable, that the tremors ripple through your body long after it has past, even if it means the sensations verge on too much for him. Only once he feels you start to loosen up and your breathing begin to relax does he pull out, pressing kisses into your skin all the while his hands caress your shaking body. He hears your head roll to the side to face him as he lies down next to you.

“Matt,” you breathe, and he can hear the blissed out smile spreading across your face as you curl your body into his.

“You alright, angel?” he whispers, kissing your forehead.

“Amazing,” you sigh softly.

“I’m gonna go get some things to clean you up, okay? I’ll be right back.”

You hum a confirmation as Matt gives you another kiss, carefully rolling out of bed and through the loft. He returns quickly with a warm damp towel, some water, and a pack of grapes. Putting the glasses down on the nightstand, he sits on his knees, pressing gentle kisses into the skin of your stomach, hips, and thighs.

“Can you open your legs for me, sweetheart?” he asks softly.

“I don’t think I can do more,” you breathe dreamily.

Matt chuckles, absolutely beaming at your happy disposition in his bed. “We’ll get you there eventually, sweetheart. But I want to clean you up. I’m gonna move your knee, okay?”

You oblige with his request, a soft moan falling from your lips as you spread wide for him, the delightful soreness reminding you of how perfectly his body fit with yours. “That’s it,” he whispers as he helps gently guide your leg open. “That’s my girl.” Matt is careful with his wipes, sprinkling kisses here and there as little reassurances. He’s extra careful when he gets to your core, knowing all too well how sensitive you must be. When he’s finished, he tosses it to the side and leans up over you to kiss you.

“Can you sit up for me now and drink some water?” he whispers into your cheek before stamping another kiss to your skin.

You do as he asks without another word and he hands you the glass, a gentle arm around your shoulders as you hydrate. “Can I get you anything else, angel? Do you want a snack? I can give you a little massage, if you want.”

“I’m okay,” you tell him, your mind beginning to reorient itself as you snuggle into his body. “That was . . . I don’t even know.”

“I hope it was a good ‘I don’t even know’,” he smirks.

“The best ‘I don’t even know’,” you chuckle. “I, um . . .” You blush deeply before you mutter, “Thank you for being my first.”

Matt notices the skip in your heartbeat, the shy and scared tone of your voice, and the salty tears that threaten to spill down your cheeks.

You’re embarrassed—ashamed, even. Why?

Matt pushes your chin up with his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to look at his face.

“Thank you for giving me the honor. For trusting me,” he whispers, placing a light kiss on the apple of your cheek. “This is something important. Personal.”

“You don’t think . . . I mean, I . . .” you start, unsure of how to even form the question you were thinking.

“Not too many people are like you, (Y/N)—pure like you in everything that you do. I’m glad you were able to trust me with this.” Your wrap an arm around him and turn your face into his shoulder. “I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else tonight with anyone else.” He kisses your temple. “Let me take you to dinner tomorrow,” he whispers in your hair. “Let me date you. Because I don’t want this to be it between us.”

That sentence makes you tilt your head up, amazed how he’s facing you with nothing but utter adoration. “I told you you weren’t a fling. I want the chance to show you how happy you make me, how you make me feel. Please?”

A bright smile pulls at your lips, a new wave of energy washing over you. You pull your body up, having your lips meet his, rolling on top of him. You gingerly straddle his hips with your legs, kissing him passionately as he reciprocates with just as much emotion.

“Can I take that as a yes, or?” Matt chuckles, a deep red blush speckling his fair complexion as you carefully place your body weight on his lap.

“Yes,” you hum, pulling his bottom lip between your teeth before moving back in and slipping your tongue in his mouth like he did to you earlier.

“Mm, angel,” he murmurs against your lips, and you feel something begin to press against your thigh, Matt’s strong hands moving up your waist as his thumbs brush the sides of your breasts. Your heart swells with excitement and your face flushes with heat, a tingly buzz in your lower abdomen. If you thought Matt was intoxicating just by sitting at his desk doing legal work, you are simply drunk on him with his body below you like this.

“How about we test my stamina?” you sigh between kisses.

Matt smiles brightly and kisses you with urgency, understanding that tonight will probably go longer than he initially anticipated. Even in your desire to do something so sinful, you still remain so pure.

And you’re all his.

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upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year

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I need to know that she's going to art school in philly. A reunion, maybe Eddie helping her move. Her meeting Wayne pls. love your writing!!

The acceptance letter came and two weeks later, you were on a flight.

It had been easy to pack up another suitcase, clothes and belongings flung into the bag, shoes still stained with mud from camp, Eddie’s sweater folded on top, his mixtape in your walkman, never taken out. You packed Polaroids in the front covers of books, printed emails folded neatly between the pages, the letter from the university tucked beside it.

You’d told your parents, got yelled at and then watched them cry. It was simultaneously the hardest and easiest thing you’d ever done. You’d spent the rest of summer at home, thinking you’d craved the camp grounds, the noise, the forest. But each email that pinged into your inbox brought the same excitement and eventually, you realised that it was Eddie you missed the most.

You called him the day the letter arrived. Hands shaking on the plastic receiver, the paper clutched to your chest and you stuttered and stammered your way through an introduction when his uncle

Wayne picked up but god, the feeling that came over you when the man yelled for his nephew and said, ‘it’s your girl, son,’ was completely and utterly indescribable.

You bought your tickets the next day. You didn’t have an apartment lined up, not yet. But your parents took you to the airport and they both hugged you, told you to stay safe and call them when you landed, so things didn’t seem as scary as they once did.

Eddie told you he’d meet you in arrivals and you spent the flight wondering if he’d changed, I’d he’d looked different, if he’d feel different when you hugged him. ‘Cause it had been almost six weeks since you last saw him and almost every bit of communication you’d had with him since had been in black and white, words on a computer screen.

Philadelphia looked like the biggest city you’d ever seen from the sky, and god, maybe it’s cause it was. You’d barely strayed from Michigan before, a summer spent in a forest in Indiana the most adventurous it had gotten. The plane seemed to skim the tops of skyscrapers as it came into land, the sky blue and the ground grey concrete and littered with cars that looked like multi-colored ants.

Big bridges, long stretches of water, roads that criss-crossed over each other and somewhere, hopefully, amongst the brownstones and suburbs, would be your future apartment. You dreamt about paint colours, thrift store coffee tables, how you’d get a couch in the front door, a bed you didn’t have to make every morning.

You thought of Eddie in it, more often than not, maybe, eventually. Eddie in your kitchen, a tiny space, more than likely, Eddie at the stove, sleepy eyed and shirtless with messy hair and coffee for you and him. You thought about the boy in your bed, a proper bed that fit both of you, where you could do more than just kiss and let hands wander.

Your stomach flipped at that, heart cartwheeling in your chest. But maybe that’s just because the plane had hit the runway with a bump and a jerk and oh my god? You were in Philadelphia.

Home.

Eddie was waiting where he said he would, his last email tucked under your arm with the rest of your documents, your boarding pass, your paperwork for the rest of your luggage that wouldn’t be arriving for another few days.

‘I’ll get you in arrivals,’ he’d typed. ‘I’ll be beside the coffee shop there, there’s a huge ass plant, look for that.’

Your heart thumped to the same rhythm of the roll of your suitcase, the wheels clickclickclicking over the tiles and everyone was simultaneously moving to slow and too fast at the same time. You wondered if Eddie smelled the same, if he used the same cologne, if he’d still smell like summer and rain and smoke now that he wasn’t at camp.

Would he look at you the same way? Would he still like you? Would he still want you? Was this a mistake?

You paused, chest heaving and eyes blinking back tears that were brought on with from the familiar feeling of panic but then you looked across the lounge and saw a face in the crowd, right next to a huge fern, right where he said he’d be.

Eddie looked the same, black jeans ripped at the knees, a T-shirt with a band logo on the front that you’d never heard of, faded and sun bleached. He looked a little tan still, like he’d spent just as much time outside in the city that summer as he had at camp. His hair was the same, except he’d cut his bangs, a tiny bit squint, just like he’d told you in an email. You knew there was a new tattoo on his right forearm, a line of trees in black ink, the keast metal thing on his body, he’d said. But it reminded him of camp and summer and a second home.

You couldn’t wait to see it, you’d told him.

You were walking over before you realised, your feet carrying you across the large room with less panic than you previously had. ‘Cause looking at Eddie was like waking up on a summer morning, hazy blue skies outside your bedroom window, cotton sheets, bed warm skin, the smell of sunscreen, rainstorms from the night before, coffee through pine tree forests.

It was familiar, comforting, like home.

He saw you then, grinned like you remembered, wide and all consuming, a bright stretch of a smile across his face, dimples deepening at the sight of you. You picked up your pace when he stepped forward, feet almost tripping over themselves and you flung yourself at him, suitcase rolling away abandoned.

Eddie caught you, groaning into your neck as his arms wound themselves around your waist and he sounded relieved. He smelled the same. Like smoke and rain and summer and Eddie and you clung to him, arms a vice around his neck, squealing when he lifted you from the floor.

“Fuck,” he murmured into your skin, nose pressed to your pulse point. His voice was a rough rasp, thick with emotion. “I fuckin’ missed you.”

You nodded, agreeing, pulling back to press your nose against his, pressing a your lips to his in what was more a shared smile than a kiss - but it felt just as good, just as nice.

#Eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #Eddie munson blurb #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fic #camp eddie blurb

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seeminglydark · 11 months

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Idk if this means anything to you but I'm a comic artist who's had a hard time doing art for a few years. The first four was because of life hardship and lack of time/chronic pain, but now lately I've had time but a mental block. I'm creeping up on 30 and felt bad about myself for "missing out" on my opportunity to be a comic artist. It was really validating to see you post about being 41 (correct me if I'm wrong) especially since you have such wonderful comics that I've been following for a while now. It makes me feel less like I'm wasting my time putting my things in order when I "should" be drawing.

Hopefully this doesn't come across as offensive or anything. It was just comforting and validating. Anyway, big fan! Love your characters a whole lot and hope you have a good day!

Dear Anon

I am 41 years old. I have wanted to make comics my entire life. before my dad got sick, and my childhood kinda fell apart, all i did was draw. after that, i used the stories in my head to cope. life moved on. i was convinced not to accept a partial scholarship to an art school in California. life got hard. i worked at a hotel, and after i escaped an abusive relationship at 22 i hitchhiked/bused far far away to start over. i tried to make comics again, but i had to survive, and so i got another job doing the only thing i knew how to do, hotels. and i worked. and worked. and life got harder and times got heavier and i didn't get time to draw and i worked double hours, 15 to 17 hours a day. and i went four years without drawing a single thing.

i kept working myself into the ground. i was 29 now. i picked up a pen again and drew a red haired boy. he had a hard life and no love and no friends. his problems were on the outside, for everyone to see. he ran away but his problems went with him.

i was 32. surely i was too old now. my time to be an artist was gone. i had no school. no hope. i was so far behind the younger gen i saw online. i cried. all the time. i wrote stories in my email drafts while i worked shifts. i stayed up late trying to learn how to draw again. i cried some more. the boy grew. i called him Fiach. worthy. a raven. later i renamed him Avery. he was like a bird, he had wings, he was my hope. i started writing some friends for him. the people i wished i had around me.

i started finding time and space. i got a new job, something where i was lucky enough to set my own hours. for the first time i had a partner who believed in me. things were hard. but i was drawing now. and that helped.

i went on a road trip and i started drawing pages of an unnamed story on 6 by 8 paper in a sketchbook. i drew 20 of them. 'what could i call this?' i thought. Nothing Seems as Dark...no says my partner. Seemingly Dark. he made me a logo. i was 35. i bought an ipad, i cant do this on paper, its too much story i have too much to say. so i learned how to draw digitally by tracing my own trad art pages.

I spoke to my dad for the last time on June 17th, fathers day that year. he said 'you're good. i'm proud. and you're gonna do amazing things. none of this is your fault. and we will speak again soon.' i didn't know id never hear his voice again. he died a week later.

i turned 36. i kept trying. i'm old, i don't understand the internet. how can i share this?

i stumbled across Lore Olympus. i was introduced to webcomics. id read comics online before but the thought never occurred to me. i opened an account on Tapas. and then i stared at it. what if no one likes it. what if its bad. my art isn't good. i should wait til i'm better. but will i ever really be better? or will i always believe that tomorrow is better? do it now. if even one person gets something out of this story, this story about a boy who is you, a boy who looking for hope, a boy who might make it, then that is enough isn't it.

June 17th 2018 i launched Seemingly Dark.

SD's five year anniversary is in a week. 0ver 700 pages. leaps and bounds in progress with my skills. a printed comic under my belt as of monday. i was always a storyteller. but i was always an artist too.

I am 41 years old, dear anon. I did not truly embark on this journey til i was 35. life got in the way. even now, chronic illness gets in the way. but its worth it. its never ever too late. i believe in you the way my dad believed in me. i reset my life again and again. but I was always an artist. and if thats who you are, and who you want to be, even if things dont go the way you wished they could, you're an artist too.

im 41 years old. i speak about my age, even though i often feel too old to belong in spaces, cuz really, in this case age is just a number. take care of yourself. do what you need to do. and little by little, when your able, carve out your space until it becomes more of a habit. sometimes i think about all the years i lost not drawing or creating. but there's a lot of factors that make me believe had i made my story then, it wouldn't be the story it is now, i needed to live a bit. i needed to find myself. i know this was long, but i just wanted you to see i also had to put my life in order, and getting notes like this reminds me it wasnt at all a waste. im glad i could offer you some comfort. thats honestly the best compliment i could ever receive.

TL;dR I was 35 when i sat down and seriously started making comics, because life always got in the way and so did my confidence. i always feared being too old. im 41 now, still going strong.

#rj rambles #this is really long im sorry anon #i think my late comic blooming story is kinda important for people to hear #thankyou for giving me a reason to tell it

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brunchable · 2 years

Text

Chapter I - Play With Fire || Surgeon!Stephen Strange x Nurse!Reader.

Words: 2.5K

Genre: Hospital Romance, Love Triangle/Square, Sexual Tension.

Summary: You put on a brave front towards Stephen after walking in on something that shook you to the core.

Pairings: Stephen Strange x Reader, Nurse!Chris Evans x Reader.

A/N: ha... i couldn't stop giggling like an idiot while writing this GRFBAJSDLAVA

Previous || Next

You turned your head in the direction of the sound and saw one of the newly graduated nurses standing at the entrance, waiting for you to speak to her, “Hey Trish, come in, how can I help?”

“Hey (Y/N), I-er… Can you please walk me through how to put a catheter in a male patient? I just haven’t done it before.” She asked in a rather timid manner, and you gave her a kind grin in response.

“Of course. Have you printed the hospital policies and procedures?” You questioned as you were getting up from your desk, and Trish gave you a nod in response, “Alright, let’s go!”

It being your fourth day at work, you started wearing your scrubs on the second day after overdressing a little on your first day. In the past couple of days, you have been seeing more and more of Doctor Strange, but since your little encounter with him, he hasn’t approached you one on one, he just constantly smiles at you and says hey as you walk by each other, and every time you peek towards his direction, you always manage to catch him looking away from you—he’d exchange shy, amorous glances with you as he found a new favourite spot which was in front of office.

Your office had the view of the entire ward as it’s literally right in front of the nurses station, anybody could see whether you were inside or not thanks to the glass windows—but of course, you have roller blinds that you can pull down for privacy when staff comes in to talk to you.

“So why does this patient need a catheter?” You asked as Trish led you to where she left the printed policies and procedures.

“He failed a trial of void and has over 500mls of urine in his bladder when I scanned it, so the Doctors ordered me to put another catheter in.” Trish explained while experiencing a tiny sense of pressure as a result of your never-ending line of questions.

“Alright, let’s gather what we need then, you got the list there? I’ll help you find them.” After getting the impression that she was having a notable stress, you spoke in a less forceful approach. Trish flipped the ten double-sided pages and began reading the list. You were standing behind her as she read the paper, and you also read it over her shoulder.

“Most of these are in the storage room…” She muttered to herself.

“That’s fine. Tell you what, I’ll grab these for you and you grab the dressing trolley and disinfect it thoroughly because this is a sterile procedure.” You smiled at her and placed your palm up, asking for the paper, which she gave to you with a much more relaxed smile.

“Okay, thanks… I’ll prepare the trolley.” She smiled and went ahead to look for one in the medication room.

While Trish was carrying out what you had requested that she do, you went and made your way to the storage room, which was located in the most distant part of the ward. You entered the building by tapping your key card on the door, and then to your absolute horror, you walked into Charlotte as she was pushing herself upon Strange, whose scrub top was halfway up his torso and your eyes almost burst out of their sockets.

"Sweet Jesus on a bike." You let out a loud gasp, covered your mouth, and then began waving your hands in the air as you whirled around in a panic and slammed the door shut. You heard the two of them scurrying to leave the room before another person stepped in behind you, so you sped up your stroll and broke into a sprint as you darted around the corner for another hiding spot.

You tried to make sense of what the fuck you just walked into by pressing your palm against your lips as your eyelids fluttered frantically. You had heat creeping up on your neck, cheeks, and ears; you felt mortified and appalled at the same time.

“This is why I keep telling you to stop approaching me at work.” You overheard Stephen scold Charlotte, and his irritation came through loud and clear in his voice.

“Don’t worry about her, she won’t do anything. She’s still pretty new.” Charlotte replied with complete disregard of any consequences, “You know my Dad owns this hospital, there are plenty of ways to keep her quiet.”

Stephen sighed heavily, “You’re unbelievable. Just go back to work, your break time’s over.”

Charlotte frowned as she glanced at her watch and tiptoed over to give Stephen a peck on the cheek before going back on the floor, “You’re going to have to make it up to me later.”

“Mhm. Sure.”

While you were holding your breath and pressing yourself more firmly against the wall, Charlotte strolled straight by you without realising you were there. You made the decision to wait another five minutes in order to be absolutely certain that the Strange had gone.

You released a gentle breath before turning around, expecting no one to be there. However, as you turned sharply around the corner, your face met Stephen's firm chest, and you swallowed the knot that was in your throat. You could feel him staring down at you directly, as you fixed your gaze on his chest, your eyelids began to flutter, and then gently, you tipped your head up to meet with his eyes.

"Are you okay?" His voice was low—much lower than what was appropriate for this kind of conversation. It sounded like the passionate and soothing voice of a lover.

After you began to feel discomfort in your chest, you realised that you had been holding your breath ever since you accidentally ran into this man. You inhaled the air slowly, and with it came the scent of him: musky, spicey, crispy like the air of winter. A different scent. It crammed itself into every void you had inside you. Despite this, the other woman's perfume made your stomach turn, and suddenly you felt like you needed to throw up. You had no excuse for even feeling this way, and you were desperately trying to tell yourself that it was due to secondhand embarrassment rather than feeling envious that it wasn't you who had your hands on him.

“I’m great!” You lied and pulled the biggest smile you could muster and stepped aside to walk past him and allowed yourself into the storage room, where he followed you in and closed the door behind him.

His nifty hand wrapped fully around your wrist before you pivoted around, the pressure of Strange's hand on your wrist felt like a shackle and you forcefully tore your hand free.

"Don't touch me." You sternly told him, straightening your posture, raising your chin and meeting his gaze head on.

Stephen's jaw tightened. He seemed to be restraining himself. Maybe he wasn’t used to being fought off or ordered around. When he lifted his head and stared down at you, for some reason it made you feel like you’re the one in trouble.

"Keep whatever you saw between us." he said at last.

"What?" You weren't prepared for that, though you probably should have seen it coming.

"Keep whatever you saw, between us," he said again. "If you want to keep your job in the long run, keep quiet. It isn't what you think it is."

"You're actually threatening me over this?" you asked, shocked that you snorted into a laugh, "Wow."

Stephen shrugged, "It's not a threat, I'm warning you."

You glared at him and crossed your arms. "Give me one good reason why I should keep my mouth shut for you."

You both looked at each other in silence for a relatively long time. It was difficult not to take pleasure in the sight of him, despite the fact that you disliked him at the moment.

"Because you love your job. I could see it every time I looked at you, I could hear all the good things your colleagues say about you," he stepped closer to you, and you didn’t back down, tilting your head to keep his gaze. The height difference between you and him irritated you, it felt like he was using it to make you feel even smaller.

"I must admit, I find myself getting used to your presence here. In the last three days, the new nurses seem more… competent." he continued, the heat emanating off him was almost unbearable. He inched forward, even though there wasn't much space—he was already so close to you, "It'll be such a shame to lose such an asset like you."

"Your meaningless flattery isn't a reason to convince me, Doctor Strange." A smirk curled on one corner of your lips as you put on a brave mask, acting as if his opinion of you meant nothing to you.

"But I mean it… or are you thinking of setting up a bargain?" He cocked his head to the side and pressed his palms against the wall, effectively trapping you in the room. He couldn't help but smile devilishly because he was having so much fun with the fight that you were giving him.

You rolled your eyes and forced yourself to stare him down and his piercing blue eyes, "I think you're forgetting something important, Doctor. To bargain, you need to have something I want."

He raised an eyebrow and his irritatingly charming grin became even broader, "Don't I?"

You furrowed your brows, feeling like it was a trick question, "Don't you what?"

He leant forwards until head was on the side of yours, and then he gently brushed his warm honeyed mouth against your ear, "Have something you want?"

You could still feel his eyes on you, as though he were waiting for some sort of reaction, the same ones he is used to getting from his "fangirls," but not from you.

Deep inside, yes, he did have something you want. Him. You wanted this man so bad that you're willing to use reverse psychology to make him crave and chase you, want you, need you.

"I think you're mistaken, Doctor. I have something you want." You claimed boldly and this was the side of you that you didn't know you had until you met him, "So if you want to keep my mouth shut—you're going to have to make me." You turned your head towards his slightly, imitating the way he intimately spoke against your ear.

"Has your mother ever taught you not to play with fire?" he turned his head to look at you, and his lips came dangerously close to making contact with yours.

"No. She taught me to light one up and watch it burn." You briskly answered, gaining a smile of approval from the man.

'Doctor Strange please come to Theatre eight.' The announcement was made by speakers mounted on the ceiling, and an overwhelming sense of relief washed over you. The tension immediately dissipated the moment Stephen took a step back from your body.

"I knew I was going to like you." He had the last word before leaving you behind in the store room.

You heaved a large sigh this time and leant against the wall for support before your knees gave way. You covered your face with your hands, you couldn’t believe you just did that. He was compelling you to behave in ways that were out of character for you.

You flinched when the door opened to find Trish this time, “Hey (Y/N), the trolley is prepped—are you okay?”

“Y-yeah, I’m fine. Sorry I took a while, I got distracted.”

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

You locked your office as you left and waved goodbye to the afternoon staff that were present in the nurses station.

"See ya guys, have a good shift." You raised your hand and waved at them as you walked by.

"Bye (Y/N)! Have a good evening." They waved back at you.

You caught Chris leaving his office as well, he should have gone an hour ago but he was delayed by the amount of paperwork he needed to finish.

“Christopher.” You called his name as you joined his side to leave the ward.

“(Y/N).”

“Long day?” You asked.

“Eh– A little bit, but it wasn’t that bad. Yours?”

The incident crossed your mind and you opened your mouth to say something but you changed your mind, “It was okay. I did a few things with the new grads.”

“I heard. I’m really glad you’re settling in really well.”

You smiled and nodded, both of you halting in front of the elevator when Chris punched the down button. Chris stared at you, observing that you seemed like there was something disturbing your thoughts. He softly bumped you with his arm and you nudged him back.

“Ladies first.” Chris stepped aside and gestured to you to enter the elevator first.

“Thank you.” You chuckled and stepped in with Chris following behind you. You pressed B2 while Chris pressed B1. You could feel him giving you quick glances like he’s hesitating to ask you something, “Spit it out, Evans.”

Chris chuckled, “I was wondering if you could join me for dinner tonight, I’ll cook.” He asked at the same time the elevator opened into another floor where Stephen walked in.

“Evening.” Stephen greeted the both of you.

“Evening.” Chris replied.

You averted Stephen’s eyes and took a step back, placing yourself at the corner. You cleared your throat in the silence, “I would love to have dinner with you at your place tonight, Chris.”

“Great. Does seven o’clock sound good?” Chris continued the conversation like Stephen wasn’t there.

You glanced at Stephen who stood diagonal from you, he had a subtle smirk on his lip, a smirk that you felt the urge to slap out of his face, “Sounds good.”

Chris smiled at you and noticed his floor coming up, “Oh this is me.”

You recognised that once Chris gets off you’d be alone with Strange again and without any forethought you grabbed Chris’s pinky finger, preventing him from stepping out of the elevator.

Chris’s eyes darted from you to his hand, “You alright?”

“Can you walk me to my car? It’s just creepy down there in the evening.” You made up a lame excuse.

“Yeah of course.” Chris shuffled back beside you, looking down at your hands and smiled to himself when you didn’t let go of his finger.

Stephen observed quietly and noticed the small smile on Chris's face. It was obvious to him that the other man had a thing for you, he wondered if you felt the same towards Chris. It made all of this a little more interesting for him.

TAGS: @goldencherriess @severuined @praetorrara @emotionsareforuglypeople @bxsotted @siredlust @sherlux @tis-vereon @greatburger @lykaonimagines @strangeions @dragonqueen89 @kylosbitch @lovecleastrange @patbrdac @brookymsa @downtownshabby @lucimorningst4r @diabaroxa @reader6898 @mando-is-the-way @faithinhome @bobateadaydreams @strangeobsessed @mochuchi @mischiefmanaged71 @marcelin3 @thewinterpoet2 @evelynrosestuff @lokislov3 @diabaroxa

#stephen strange #benedict cumberbatch imagine #stephen strange x reader #stephen strange x you #marvel x you #benedict cumberbatch x reader #benedict cumberbatch #benedict cumberbatch x you #doctor strange imagine #doctor strange x you #doctor strange #doctor strange x reader #dr strange x reader #dr strange x you #Spotify

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megidonitram · 2 months

Text

Everyone's Running From Something (ch.3)

A Baldur's Gate 3 University Professor AU

Rating: M

Quick Summary: Astarion and Gale are two University English professors precariously mentoring a troubled 19-year-old and falling in love.

💖Main Pairing : BloodWeave,(Astarion/Gale) 💕Side Pairings: Shadowheart/Nocturne, Karlach/Dammon, Wyll/The Dark Urge, Tav/Tav 💔Past Pairings: Gale/Mystra, Astarion/Sebastian, Astarion/Tav

<=Previous Chapter | Master List | Ao3 | Next Chapter =>

**Please see Master List Entry for Full Content Warnings**

⏰Chapter Warning⏰ None

Astarion took a lap around the building to cool off before returning to his office- The last thing he needed was Gale asking him how he was doing after that little shit-show. Korrilla had also given him something of a runaround after he left Raphael’s office. She accidentally printed his requested forms on legal-size paper (because she forgot that she didn’t restock the printer before break) and then wasn’t sure if being in the wrong formatting would invalidate the paperwork, so Astarion had to wait for her to go get a fresh package of printer paper from the supply closet in the basement, which made him feel like a dick because she had to climb four flights of stairs to do that.

The problem with Korrilla was that Astarion never knew if she was in on Raphael’s torment or if she was just making a series of human mistakes because he made her nervous- though neither answer made the interaction any less annoying.

When Astarion got back to his office, Gale was still there. He was flipping through a heavily marked-up handbook on technical writing for business communications, staring at the pages as if he were either heavily engrossed by the reading -unlikely- or trying to light the damn thing on fire. It only made sense once he stepped into the room and saw Xenia posted up in the corner on her phone.

“Ah, Miss Bellona. Exactly who I was hoping to run into.” Astarion said, snapping the tension in the room like a loose thread. Gale nearly jumped out of his skin. “You look terrible.”

Xenia looked up at him with narrowed eyes, chewing one of her nails on her good hand. “I’ve had a rough few months.” She replied in that flat, desperately-trying-not-to-care tone that made her so fun to tease.

“I’ve heard. What do you need help with?” He slapped down his stack of paperwork on his desk and sat at his computer. Astarion saw Gale watching him wide-eyed, and he wondered how much Gale had pried while he was gone.

“I wanted to get the assignment sheets for my missing work from Survey of Gothic Literature,” Xenia said. Gale casually turned in his chair and pretended to rearrange the books on his shelf, giving them the courtesy of at least pretending to check-out of their conversation. “I thought I should get started on finishing that before the rest of my classes start…”

“Of course, you dropped off around Project… 4, was it? I think I kept a folder with your missing assignments somewhere.” With a few keystrokes, Astarion’s computer lurched back to life, fan buzzing as the machine recalibrated after being shut off for a month straight.

“I think the last thing I turned in was the 2nd character study…” Xenia replied. “…or maybe I just finished it- do you recall reading a paper from me about Miss Jessel?”

“I don’t, but I’ve read nearly a thousand bad-to-mediocre composition papers since then, so it’s likely I just forgot.” Astarion clicked through the expired Canvas shell to skim the grade book and determine which assignments he needed to pull.

“Oh, so my writing's mediocre?”

“I’m sorry, your 1200-word sophomore-level essay demonstrated a pure mastery of your craft. How foolish of me to forget when the beauty of your words brought me to tears.” Astarion scoffed. He found the file folder he was looking for and printed it off. “Gale, I know you’re terribly busy, but could you grab those papers from the 2nd floor breakroom?”

“Absolutely!” Gale was on his feet and heading for before the request had fully left Astarion’s mouth. He gave Xenia a friendly smile. “Back in a flash!”

“Take your time.” The comment came out a lot more passive-aggressive than Astarion meant it. He watched Gale leave the room and listened for the stairwell door to open and close. Astarion turned back to Xenia. “What did you say to him?”

Xenia shrugged. “He asked about my dad, and I told him that I stabbed him to death.”

“Did you happen to… elaborate on that?”

“No, he didn’t ask.”

Astarion sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know, if you want people to stop treating you like a freak, you’ll have to stop acting like one.”

Xenia crossed her good arm in front of herself and pouted. “It’s not like someone wouldn’t have told him anyways.”

“Probably, but even a complete stranger would make you seem at least a little saner,” Astarion replied.

Xenia went quiet for a moment, her lips twisting into a disgruntled snarl. Her eyes drifted to the water-stained ceiling tiles. Astarion sort of understood her twisted logic. There were a lot of people on campus who treated her like a ticking time bomb, regardless of whether they knew her exact circumstances or not. If people would be convinced that she was a monster regardless, perhaps it was better if she was the one doing the convincing- at least then she was in control. It hurts less to meet someone's rotten expectations than to try your hardest and fail to prove them wrong.

“I suppose you want to know what happened last semester?” she muttered.

“Tell me or don’t.” Astarion shrugged. “I could not care less.”

Xenia rolled her eyes. “You’re such a dick.”

“What I am is a mandatory reporter, so think carefully about what you want to tell me- unless you like filling out copious amounts of paperwork,” Astarion said. “Do you need the reading materials? I could just lend you my anthology since you’re the only one left in the class.”

“I’ve still got my book from last year…” Xenia replied, mind still very clearly elsewhere. “…Do you have siblings?”

Astarion paused. “Yes. 6 of them. Why?”

“How do you refer to them… like in your mind? Do you call them your siblings?”

“I don’t think of the much anymore, honestly. But I suppose when I do, I think of them as their first names.” Astarion sighed. “Is there something you actually wanted to talk to me about?”

“I’m having trouble figuring out how to think of my sister,” Xenia admitted. “I guess she was never really my sister, and she was never really to blame, but…”

“You’re allowed to be angry at her,” Astarion replied. “I think you should be, frankly.”

Xenia mulled over his words for a moment, and Astarion could see her run her tongue along the inside of her cheek, absent-mindedly tracing the contours of her scar. She opened her mouth to say something, but the door in the stairwell creaked open, and she clamed up, wary of being overheard.

***

Gale felt horribly selfish for wanting to bolt out of the office as badly as he did. He wanted Xenia to feel comfortable and safe around him -the poor thing seemed like she’d been through enough- but he’d locked up. It wasn’t difficult for Gale to surmise that she probably didn’t commit patricide for the fun of it- those kinds of actions are usually born out of extreme desperation. However, whenever he thought about trying to relate to her or lift the mood, the impulse was killed by some strange insistence that he was being too personal, too forthcoming, too intimate.

He envied the ease with which Astarion had struck up a rapport with her- it seemed that despite his posturing, Astarion did, in fact, have a few soft spots. Gale told himself that it was because Astarion had leagues more experience in these departments than he did, but still, he worried. This was the first time he’d been on a college campus purely as a professional, and it felt a lot more daunting than he’d ever imagined.

It took Gale a hot minute of wandering around on the wrong floor to figure out Astarion meant “second floor” in the standard British English sense of the phrase, and the break room was actually located on the third floor. He collected the small stack of orphaned papers from the tray next to the copier and returned to Astarion’s -his- office.

Xenia was still there, Idle chatting about the books she’d read while in involuntary hold. “Do you teach V.C. Andrews? She’d gothic lit, isn’t she?”

“I’m not much of an Americanist,” Astarion replied. “If I’m forced to teach Southern Gothic authors, I tend to gravitate towards Falkner.”

“Not Poe?”

Astarion gave her a derisive look, but Gale handed the stack of papers before he could respond. He flipped through to ensure everything was in order and handed them over to Xenia. “You’ve got two more plot summaries, a thematic analysis, and a comparative essay for the final. Work on them at your leisure.”

Xenia took the papers and tossed them in the tattered messenger bag she’d brought without a second glance. “Thanks!” She said. “Is there anything else I need?”

Astarion put a hand on the paperwork he’d brought in with him, thumbing over the corner before he shot a scrutinizing look over at Gale. “Yes… but we’ll talk about it later.” He said.

“Alight, see you around then.” Xenia shrugged and slung her bag over her good shoulder but didn’t quite get it, and the strap slid down her arm, catching hard in the crook of her elbow. She let out a frustrated groan.

“Here, allow me.” Gale stepped forward and looped the strap comfortably over her shoulder.

Xenia cocked her head and gave Gale a thoughtful look, her dark eyes piercing right through him. “Thank you…” she muttered before she turned and hurried out of the office.

“She seems…” Gale trailed off. He wasn’t sure what Xenia seemed like; he’d never met a murderer before- at least not to his knowledge.

“Shorter than you’d thought she’d be?” Astarion asked flippantly, reclining in his chair. That was fair; Gale had a hard time imagining how someone as little and frail as Xenia could overpower a full-grown man, boxcutter or no.

“Did she really-”

“Self-defense,” Astarion answered several questions ahead. “I don’t suggest asking her anything else about it. She didn’t have a particularly pleasant home life.”

“I’d imagine not,” Gale replied, sitting back down at his desk. He tried his credentials again- still nothing. “-do you know how long it should take for me to be put in the university’s system?”

“Surely you should be in by now…” Astarion replied. He moved to look over Gale’s shoulder. He was so close Gale could feel his breath tickling the back of his neck- he had to suppress a shiver.

Astarion said something, pointing at the computer screen. He had such striking eyes, such a warm brown that they were almost red.

Gale completely missed what. “Sorry?”

“Try logging in without the server address,” Astarion repeated a slight edge in his voice. “Everything after the ‘at’ symbol.”

“Right.” Gale deleted the back half of his username and tried again. The computer loaded and loaded and loaded.

“That’s typically a good sign. Computers on campus take forever to log you on the first time.” Astarion said. He picked up the picture of Yenna and examined it dispassionately. “Cute kid, is she yours?”

“Ah, no… that’s my niece.” Gale felt suddenly and incredibly self-conscious. “I’ve always wanted my own, but it wasn’t in the cards, I’m afraid.”

The admission shocked him slightly, but he supposed it was true. Mystra had never wanted kids, and Gale wanted to keep her pleased, so he went along with that. But Gale had always loved kids. He’d been so excited when Yenna was born that he could hardly put her down. Still, when people asked him and Mystra if they were planning on having kids, he’d just nod dutifully while she explained that he was too focused on his career to think about kids.

“Shame,” Astarion said, setting the picture frame back down.

Gale’s computer screen went black, and then an empty Windows desktop appeared. Success!

“Just in time to log out for the all-hands meeting!” Astarion exclaimed looking at his watch.

“Naturally…” Gale sighed.

#Mat-write #baulders gate 3 #bg3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 link #bg3 fanfiction #bloodweave #bg3 gale #bg3 astarion #bg3 dark urge #oc: Xenia #oc: Xenia Bellona #bg3 au #professor dekarios

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r1ddlessy · 2 years

Text

anniversary gifts with klitz

a/n:this is dedicated to my lovely nonny 🤑<3

warnings:excessive amount of pulp fiction references

"i know you're not a fan of flashy stuff, but i think you deserve to be spoiled too pumpkin..." you smiled sheepishly as you passed klitz the small gift-wrapped box. klitz raised his eyebrows in anticipation before opened the box and saw the gold watch. he smiled genuinely and looked at you with eyes full of adoration.

"you must have had to save up your allowance for this, i really appreciate it bunny." he spoke softly and you could see a tinge of red on his cheeks. you giggled and nodded.

"i'd rather buy you one nice thing than buy myself a hundred." you shrugged happily. "you're always spoiling me, you never take the time to spoil yourself but someone should." you remarked as you gently took the watch out and fastened it to his wrist. "it looks great on you!"

klitz raised his arm and adjusted the time on it, all while smiling shyly at your words.

"i'm celebrating my anniversary with the most beautiful, amazing girl i could be lucky enough to have. i'm spoiled as it is, bunny." he finished his statement with a kiss on your temple that made your heart thump against your chest.

"thank you for your present, honey bunny. can i give you yours now?"

you nodded enthusiastically and klitz chuckled as he pulled out a small rectangular box with the signature blue you knew and loved. you gasped as he undid the white bow and took out a delicate string of pearls.

"they're beautiful, pumpkin." you said softly, in absolutely awe. you looked up at him with shine-covered eyes. "can you put them on for me?"

klitz nodded and you lifted your hair, giving him access to your neck. he did the clasp of the necklace up then placed a kiss on your bare nape.

"i think the girl wearing them is more beautiful." he murmured in your ear and your face warmed. he pulled away with a sheepish expression. "i have to confess they're not the only present i got for you..." you furrowed your brows in confusion as you watched him stand up and go into his office, before returning with a big black book. "i know it's kinda silly, but i thought now was the right time to give it to you."

he set the book down on your lap and you opened it curiously. the first page contained a Polaroid shot of the two of you dressed as Pumpkin and Honey Bunny/Yolanda from Pulp Fiction on your first Halloween together. the shot made you smile as you recalled getting Eli to take it outside the diner where you had all ended the night. below the shot, in Klitz's neat handwriting were the words "my partner in crime for life." as you progressed through the book tickets to movie dates he'd taken you to, other memorability and more photographs filled the pages, each with an annotation on how klitz remembered the event or how it reminded him of why he loved you. every receipt, ticket stub and pressed flower from your picnic dates made your heart swell until by the last page there were tears filling your eyes.

"klitzy, it's so nice." you sniffled and he rubbed your arm comfortingly. he kissed your cheek and held you close.

"i wanted to show you how much you mean to me." he murmured and you sniffled harder. "don't cry honey bun..." he soothed you gently.

"they're happy tears klitzy." you giggled wetly. "i can't believe im so lucky to be with you." once you calmed down you looked at the final page and saw it was an excerpt from a script you both knew well. printed on the paper was the simple exchange of "i love you, pumpkin" and "i love you, honey bunny" but it meant so much more to you. you looked through the scrapbook one more time, smiling fondly to yourself before you finally closed it and stood up.

"i actually got you something else too." you confessed, grinning excitedly. klitz chuckled at your excitement and watched you scutter off to the spare room. you returned with a white box with a clear top, showing what looked like hundreds of tiny envelopes. you set the box down on klitz's lap and he opened it curiously. he picked up an envelope at random and opened it, a strip of text in the style of a fortune cookie fluttering out.

"i love your kindness"

klitz smiled at the message then opened another envelope where the text read "i love how patient you are". as he opened more and more envelopes his smile widened, each one describing another thing you loved about him. eventually he decided he would save some to surprise himself on another day, but he'd read enough to feel his love for you grow even more.

"you are the most amazing person i could have ever asked for. i don't understand how i got so lucky, honey bunny."

"i think i'm the lucky one, pumpkin."

#ramblings...to klitzy!✍️#klitz x reader #klitz fluff

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hungerpunch · 1 year

Text

scraping brain out

sometimes i get frustrated or genuinely confused about why i still struggle with my relationship to my body so much when i'm like.. mostly fine with it these days. why do i still pick my face until it's bloody everywhere when i'm stressed. why do i pull the skin off my lips until they're bleeding and swollen. why am i so, so afraid of being looked at, why does attention make my skin crawl, why do i cringe when people talk about me even if it's positive?

it's like my brain routinely suppresses the reasons and then i remember. oh yeah. i was violently bullied from the ages of 8-18. i was physically attacked by kids of all genders. i was stalked. i was hurt. i was humiliated at every opportunity. verbally degraded at every opportunity. oh yeah, in seventh grade i came to school and someone had tacked up a list of ugliest kids in the grade and i was number three. oh yeah, a girl stole my journal out of my backpack and read pages aloud in the cafeteria to a rapt and mocking audience. everything about me was an easy target. i was super short. i had a flat chest. then i got glasses. then i got acne. then i got braces. my hair was always frizzy and could not be tamed. i was queer and they knew it before i did. they smelled my fear. they were amused by my anger when i tried to fight back. it wasn't even just in school. they appeared at my softball games. they followed me home. i was dragged through a creek, crying and full of thorns from bushes. i was pushed down into a ravine and when i climbed back up they pushed me back down, again and again until it got dark and they had to go home. i was chased and pinned and pinched and spat on and sat on and laughed at and laughed at and laughed at. i had my phone number printed on hundreds of pieces of paper and scattered all over the high school, all over the parking lot, with salacious rumors attached. i had to change my number. people asked me on dates as a joke. people asked me to dances then stood me up, collecting bets from their friends. they drove their cars along the sidewalk and screamed slurs at me. during class they blew spitballs into my hair and my face. they called me dirty because of my acne even though i was sitting in monthly dermatologist appointments, trying new things, obsessively cleaning myself.

adults saw and did nothing. in fact when my attempts to defend myself occasionally drew blood from my abusers, i was the one reprimanded. i couldn't bring myself to tell my parents the extent of it because they thought i was tough and i wanted to be tough. i didn't want to be soft. i didn't want to need help. i didn't want to change schools and leave my handful of friends.

and this is just school kids. i can't even get into family.

i have had profound healing via therapy, about reuniting with my younger self and loving them unconditionally. i know i protected me because nobody else did. i get confused about the way my adult self moves and reacts because my brain keeps this all under a lid, so i can function. then i remember. i get frustrated because i think, shouldn't i be healed by now. shouldn't i be past this. shouldn't i be better adjusted. but the truth is, no. i still haven't let this poison from my blood enough. i think it's important to understanding me as a person. i think it's important to understanding my perspective. i think it's important to understanding i didn't have anything remotely close to a normal childhood. i think it's okay that it still plagues me. i think it's okay.

#my lyfe #journal blogging #bullying #fucked up and triggered myself so have to let it out for a second

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parcequecestnotreprojeeeet · 1 year

Note

A little journey through time. Inspired by the question for pictures about his family. Your Strawberry

Family album

Sometimes he cursed his own disorder. He had been looking for papers for several minutes and just couldn't find them on his desk. As he moved one pile, another fell to the floor. "Is everything all right?" his wife called from the living room. "Yes, no harm done," he answered her and bent down to pick up what had fallen.

Then his eyes fell on a very special book and he smiled. The documents he was looking for were as forgotten as the annoyance at his mess. Instead, he sat down on his office chair and opened the book in his hands. It was their family photo album, going back to the early days of their relationship. He didn't know how it had ended up on his desk, but he began to leaf through it anyway.

There was no photo on the first page, but an announcement poster for a theatre performance. His finger lovingly stroked the name of his wife, who had been his theatre teacher. He remembered how they had rewritten this play together and how they had fallen in love in the process. It had not always been easy, but he blanked out the difficulties and remembered only the beautiful moments. When he closed his eyes, for example, there was their first kiss.

With a smile, he turned the page and found the first photo they had taken together. He remembered how he had to ask her for it to be taken at all. They had to hide their relationship then, but he longed for a picture to look at when they were apart. Each of them had this photo, there were exactly two. In the album was stuck hers. He knew where his print was and had to smile. It was in his wallet, but he hadn't taken it out in a long time. Now that he had his wife around every day, he didn't need to remember.

The next snapshots reminded him of the stolen moments they had shared for many years. A weekend at the seaside together or a holiday trip. They had spent more time apart than together. But the moments when they could be together, they had enjoyed them to the fullest and they had often consoled him over the lonely hours.

Smiling, he looked at the first family photo with her children and him. He had been afraid of how they would receive him. But with patience and empathy, his wife had managed to get their children to accept him and include him in their midst. He remembered how proud he had been when that photo was taken.

When he had got to their wedding photo and remembered how his breath had caught when he saw her in her dress and realised that she had really come and he could make good on the promise he had made when he was 17. He remembered her "yes" that she had breathed softly but surely. He felt her in his arms at the wedding dance and remembered how he had made her his wife.

Then he looked into the chubby face of her first grandchild. The photo had been taken at the little girl's christening. He saw in his own smile all the feelings he had for this little person. In the pictures that followed, their family expanded. Partners and grandchildren were added. It was a journey through time and wistfully he realised how quickly the children had grown. Each grandchild had their own unique personality and each had a place in his heart.

He looked at the family pictures on the day of his inauguration. When he became president, his whole family's lives had changed and he admired that they were all behind him. He smiled when he found the picture of his granddaughter letting him taste her ice cream. She had been so little and had not understood at all what had happened that day.

Despite his duties, they regularly celebrated birthdays or holidays together. Their holidays together were something he looked forward to and they always took a photo as a memento so that all the beautiful moments were captured.

"What are you doing?" asked his wife curiously, who had stepped up to his desk unnoticed. Smiling, he looked at her and thought, if I hadn't met her, I would never have experienced all this.

Hellooo sweet 🍓! ❤️

Aaww what an adorable trip to memory lane! Raise your hands who tried to picture every single moment that was described, as if you were the one looking that the family album 🙋🏻‍♀️🥰

Thank you so much, Strawberry! ❤️❤️❤️

#fanfic #strawberry

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anonymous--weirdo · 1 year

Text

seven~scott mccall x isaac lahey

Ship: scisaac

Genre: major angst

Warnings: Character Death, Child Abuse, Violence

______________________________________________________________

Scott sat down in the swivel chair by his desk, his pen to the paper, and watched as the blue hue spread into a small circle on the page, yet no words were written. Scott didn’t have them. He wanted to write about the color blue, the ocean, how deep and mysterious it was, and the beauty of swimming in it until you were lost and struggling to find your way back. He wanted to write about melodies that soared through the air and took you to safety and happiness. Thoughts of true love flooded his mind, the way it makes you feel alive and real. Like you're invincible, and nothing could ever hurt you. He threw the pen onto the desk and placed his head in his hands, tears welling into his eyes in frustration. Then he felt a gentle hand on his back, causing him to flinch away.

“Scott come on, your mom is downstairs waiting on us. We have to leave man,” Stiles said softly and helped his best friend up from the chair, frowning seeing the state of him.

Scott didn’t reply as he made his way to the car. He ignored the pitiful looks he got as he sat in the backseat. He looked down and on the floorboard he saw a balled up hoodie with Lahey 14 printed in vinyl on the back. He scooped it up from the floor and cradled it in his arms. He laid his head on the window, soft tears fell down his face as he closed his eyes and got lost in his thoughts.

The look on Isaac’s face was ingrained into Scott’s mind when he suggested he should run away and move in with him. The soft shock and almost terror sent chills through Scott’s spine. However, Scott felt he had no other choice. The bruises never stopped, the whimpering and wincing at each little touch didn’t stop and Scott couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted his boyfriend to be safe and so they planned it out, they would leave three nights from then. During the week Isaac would inconspicuously take all of the things he loved and wanted to keep out of the house and move it into Scott’s. The plan was flawless.

Two days before Isaac was said to move in completely and Scott hadn’t seen Isaac at all. He let his thoughts get the best of him and shot him a text. He was trying to limit the amount of messages they sent each other or how often they talked in the halls of the school. The worry however, was too much for Scott to bear, especially when the situation was so delicate.

[ Hey, checking in. I haven’t seen you all day and I am worried about you < 3 ] he sent with his bottom lip tucked into his teeth and the phone hidden slightly under the desk.

[I’m okay darling, just a bit under the weather today. The plan is still a go I promise < 3 I love you]

Scott read over the message and smiled to himself. He should have known there was nothing to worry about.

The day had come and Isaac still hadn’t been at school. The worry came back despite the constant texts he received from his boyfriend. The ticking of the clock seemed neverending as he waited for class to end. When the shrill bell rang he exited class and walked down the dreary hallway, rain was never a good thing in Beacon Hills, it made the atmosphere of the entire town eerie and sad. He checked the time and for any new messages from Isaac. He glanced toward Coach Lahey’s office and saw the lights off which was unusual for this time of day, the pool was indoors and it made sense for practice to still be on despite the rain. Being the nosey boy he was, he approached the office and peeked inside, it appeared as if no one had been in it all day and his blood ran ice cold.

Scott arrived at the Lahey household, the rain pelted against the window of his car. The rough pelting of the rain on his car only made his anxiety increase, his foot pressed the pedal harder as he sped to the Lahey residence. The street lamps passed in a blur as the dark clouds loomed overhead. He almost missed the house due to how fast he was going, he slammed his foot onto the brakes skidding into the driveway as he shoved the gear shift into park. He slung the door open, not bothering to shut the door or even take the keys from the ignition.

He sprinted to the door banging on it, “Isaac!” He screamed and banged harder, “Isaac, baby, open the door! Come on let me in!” he begged and knocked, despite hearing movement in the house no one came to answer the door, “come on Isaac!” he couldn’t take not knowing where his partner was or if he was okay. He kicked right above the door handle and under the dead bolt watching as the door kicked in.

His eyes were locked on the mess, if Scott wasn’t the forced entry it would have looked like a robbery took place. Each step he took made the floor attempt to whisper a silenced secret, he thought of what the walls would tell him if they could talk. The tragedies they could write would outdo anything Shakespeare ever did. He rounded a corner and saw a large dent in the wall, it looked as if something was slammed into over and over again. As he crept through the house, kicking something, hearing a clink, he looked down and saw broken glass scattered on the floor, a small puddle of blood with it. Then he heard it, a loud groan from the tired floorboards and looked up. That was when he saw him, a grotesque looking man, with dark beady eyes and an animalistic smile. He looked like a boogeyman of sorts, and for Isaac he always had been.

“If you're looking for Isaac you best be going,” the man smirked, “the brat is long gone. This is your fault, should have just left him alone.” he let out a laugh.

“What did you do to him? You sick son of a bitch! Where is he?” Scott growled at the man. Rage coursed through his veins as he stared at the monster in front of him. This creature had caused Isaac so much pain and had never once had to face a consequence for it. That ended today.

Scott lunged at the man causing him to stumble back into the table. Scott’s vision blurred as his fist drew blood from the man’s face. He couldn’t stop himself. With each punch his anger didn’t seize. He shoved him to the ground, the adrenaline fueling his strength and he landed harsh bone cracking kicks to the man's side.

“Isaac came downstairs!” he called out assuming his boyfriend was hiding in his room, the feeling of the things hands clawing trying to force itself free from his violent clutches did nothing. He glared down into the man's eyes. He rammed his shoe into the other’s chin and watched as his eyes went closed effectively knocking him out. He glanced at the stairs and ran up them into Isaac’s room, it was almost empty. The one thing left was a shattered picture frame of a blonde woman and a four year old Isaac. Scott frowned not seeing Isaac though.

He sprinted back down the steps and looked around before he saw a door he could have sworn was a portal to hell, he glanced back making sure the monster was still knocked out. He made his way down the steps and saw a deep freezer with a padlock chain on it and the fear set in, he knew where his boyfriend was. Scott ripped the chain lock off the freezer and opened the lid, the top had his name scratched into it alongside it desparte claw marks aching to be let out. He scooped the blonde boy from the freezer, his heartbeat was vacant and Scott screamed. The anguished cries rang down the street as he held Isaac’s body close to his chest placing isaac’s hand over his chest begging for five more minutes as he looked at the other’s fingertips. The blood under his nails was long dried and the soft purple that stained his lips had properly set in. Dark black and blue bruises were littered over his skin and the mark on his back showed what had been thrown into the living room wall repeatedly. The fear in the other’s ocean blue eyes was still evident behind the peace it seemed death had brought them, Scott gently closed his lovers eyes.

“I should have been here faster, I love you Isaac. I love you so much” he whispered softly and buried his face in the other’s soft blonde curls. Tears dripped onto Isaac’s pale cold skin. He held him closer to his chest refusing to move. Why should he move? Isaac was never going to move again, Scott could spare 10 minutes of the rest of his lifetime to just hold Isaac in a gentle way.

Scott felt a hand on his back and it forced him to flinch away, he looked up seeing Stiles, his best friend. The thoughts ran through his head. How could he not get there faster? How could he have let it get this bad? He should have saved him, that was his thing he saved people. And the one person he needed to save the most he couldn’t.

“Scott, you have to set him down. My dad will be down here in a little bit, this is being treated as a homicide.” Stiles said, “you're lucky you didn’t kill his dad or else you would be in the back of that cop car not him.”

“He was supposed to move in with me tonight, Stiles. Almost all of his stuff is at my house,” Scott whispered and refused to let his lover go, he couldn't. “Now what am I supposed to do, Stiles? I was supposed to save him!” Scott growled looking up at Stiles.

Stiles sat next to Scott and looked at him “come stay with me for a few nights. Being around his things isn’t good for you right now.” Stiles said and tried to convince the boy, “I can call your mom. I'm sure she won't mind. Just don't let yourself be alone with the thoughts.” he begged his best friend and slowly helped him lay Isaac on the basement floor. He tugged Scott off the floor and helped him up the stairs.

Scott watched the trees pass by as they made their way to the funeral. He thought of the late night phone call they got from the coroner, Isaac died two days before Scott showed up. He kept replaying the text messages in his head. They sounded like Isaac. But that’s the thing with psychopaths, they're good liars. Scott wished he could have noticed a difference in the text, one little thing to show that he was texting the devilish man rather than his lover. But he couldn’t other than the solid timeline from the coroner he would have still thought he texted Isaac those two days. He wanted Isaac back so bad, he wanted to hold the other male in his arms, run his fingers through the soft curls. He wanted to hear Isaac’s gentle whines about Scott messing up his hair but never once stopping him. He just wanted Isaac back. Instead he was left with memories. Memories of the sweetest boy to ever grace the earth.

Scott thought of the eulogy he didn’t write. He was supposed to give it in less than five minutes. Stiles wrote him one to speak if he couldn’t write it, and it was placed in Scott’s suit jacket pocket. If Scott would have been in the right state of mind he would have thanked Stiles, hugged his best friend tight and never let go. But he was distant, he barely ate, barely slept or left his room. He hadn’t been to school since the incident. He just stayed in bed Isaac’s favorite scarf held close to his face as he took in the now fading smell of his partner.

They arrived at the funeral and looks of pity followed Scott’s footsteps. It was the smallest funeral ever held in Beacon Hills and it pissed Scott off. Isaac deserved something, he deserved more than the nine people who showed up. He remembered the first funeral he ever went to, it was his mom’s friend. He watched as a woman went up in from the crowd, tears in her eyes barely able to speak a single word through her sobs. He remembered thinking ‘It can't be that hard, no one could be that sad.’ and it’s so easy to think that when you're seven years old. He suddenly understood that woman at seventeen, as he made his way up in front of the small group of people who showed up for his boyfriend.

He placed a shaky hand on the coffin in front of him and looked over the lavender flowers on top, they represented calmness and he hoped that is what Isaac had now. He let out a choked sob and shook his head, he couldn’t do this. His knees buckled beneath him and he fell to the ground. He wanted to beg, he wanted to join Isaac. He felt someone crouch down and arms wrap around his body, he glanced back expecting his mother from the way he was being held but it was Stiles. He turned around hugging Stiles. Sobbing into his best friend’s chest. Stiles didn’t pull him back to his chair in the very small crowd. He let his best friend cry into his chest.

“It’s okay, you’re allowed to cry Scott. You're allowed to feel sad and angry. Let it go,”he whispered and placed his chin on top of Scott’s head as he held him. They had nowhere to be and the people in the crowd would wait until Scott was okay, even if they had to sit there forever.

“I miss him Stiles and he’s barely been gone a week,” Scott sobbed out “how am i supposed to do the rest of my life without him?” He asked sadly and clung tighter to the boy. “I was supposed to love him for eternity.” he sniffled.

“And you will Scott, nothing will stop the love you feel for him. It will never end. You may not believe in soulmates but I do Scott, and he was yours. However much like the sad playwrights and poets say, fate is a cruel mistress. But you can’t give her that much power. Let Isaac live on through you Scott. It’s what he what have wanted, and that is cheesy bullshit and what you're supposed to say but it's true. “ he said and pulled his best friend up from the ground, “now, get your ass on front of this crowd and deliver the best goddamn eulogy they have ever heard.” He said and patted his shoulder, “and I will stand by your side the entire time. I will always stand by you Scott.” he promised.

With Stiles by his side, he cleared his throat, “I was supposed to pre-prepare something, and I couldn’t. I don’t know how to write about Isaac in the past tense because he was supposed to be my future. And I suppose if you believe in the afterlife, he might still be. But right now, I want him to be the present. And I want to stand up here and tell you all the beautiful things about him and his life. But to be honest, his life was a nightmare. But I don’t want to dwell on that. Isaac Lahey is the definition of beautiful in my book. He is so sweet inside and out and never would never wish harm upon anyone. He likes scarves and overplayed ABBA songs. The night he asked me out, we were listening to Honey Honey. And he laughed softly; it was the prettiest sound I have ever heard. He told me he loved me before he asked me out. I think that describes him well. He loves to jump headfirst into things. I love him, and I will love him forever. Until my heart stops beating, and I will think of him every time I hear the disco tones of ABBA, even if I will forever argue with him that the Mama Mia Soundtrack is better." Scott let out a small laugh and glanced at his best friend, “he will always be my forever. Even if he isn’t here I won’t let him die. “ he promised the small crowd and walked to his seat with Stiles, who kept a grounding hand on his arms the whole time.

#isaac lahey #scott mccall #isaac lahey x scott mccall #scisaac #scott and stiles #scott and isaac #sad #sciles #teen wolf #character death #angst #idk how to tags still #there might be typos

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breitzbachbea · 10 months

Note

💖🛒🎢

(And I wanna ask more, but this seems like enough for now.)

Ohhh, inch resting ones!

Fanfic Writer Emoji Asks

💖 What made you start writing?

Already answered here!

🛒 What are some common things you incorporate in your fics? Themes, feels, scenes, imagery, etc.

For obvious, be it very personal reasons, grief plays a major role in many of the things I write. Loss of a loved one, but also the mourning of chances not taken, of paths now seemingly blocked. (The latter has a lot of overlap though with me trying to not romanticize Organized Crime, so it's not just 'here is someone grieving for their past self and that is something normal we all go through', but 'Living this life will never make you happy and instead lock you into one of your potential worst selves').

I liked some good eating metaphors, even far before I knew what was going on metatextually, but now it's kicked into hyperdrive. Food, teeth, hunger, all those are things that often find their way into my writing, in minor ways.

I also love a good historical allusion, goddammit. To be fair, I don't know how many I've actually written into my writing, but I very often think about how I could represent characters with elements from myth or history. I adore a historical nickname, even if it is rather for the parent generation. Fernando's nickname being 'El Rey', and thusly Antonio at first being called 'El Principe', before the other senior Spanish mobsters realized he's pursueing a different style of business conduct and so he got stuck with 'El Conquistador'. Salvatore being known as 'Caesar' or 'Dionysius of Palermo'. Haunted houses, HUGE thing. The English office being a former Victorian era factory, Michele's house made to resemble a Roman villa, the O'Connel's house formerly being a house where in Industrial times, dozens of people lived in crammed conditions. Two of the Danish subordinates are directly based on two heroes from the medieval German epic 'Kudrun'. Dolcetto's cat is named Machiavelli and Lovino is the reason.

🎢 Which of your fics would you call your wildest ride?

I can't judge this one on subject matter (Though I guess, as far as fucked up shit goes, La Sicilia dell'eterna notte gets disturbing very quick for something with less than 500 words). Therefore, I will go for the writing process. No Rest For The Wicked was written within a week, with no prior planning whatsoever and with a deadline for rarepairweek to meet. That was some topsy turvy shit. And the latter half of Italian Affairs, like the last third I guess, is a rollercoaster ride - both in its creation and within the actual text.

But the award has to go to The Amulet. I still have to have a call with Emi and iron out the last comments, before I print the 70 pages out and proofread them. And then I can finally, FINALLY upload them.

I started writing the first draft of the story on paper in January 2017. The idea of wanting to write something with my Greek and Turkish OCs had been ghosting around my head for a while. But I initially started writing because I was stuck on Italian Affairs and none of the characters would talk to me (e.g. everything I wrote in their voice sounded ooc), so I started writing something else to 'make them jealous'. Absolute pro tip btw, pivoting away from one story when you are stuck with another will do wonders for making you inspired for the first story again. Get out of that rut. Anyways, so I started writing that draft and then continued doing so when I had a free minute at school, until the story was done. I then typed up the draft and did a first round of revisions. I tried to find beta-readers for it, which also worked in 2019. But I still didn't publish it, because the beta never made it to the end. And then it sat and sat in my drafts, while I worked on other projects. My writing improved, my standards raised themselves. And I began to see why the story had always bugged me. I saw that I would have to scrap the whole thing and start from scratch, with extensive research and some soul-searching. And this is what I did - Before I was able to write part 3, I spent weeks hovering up information about the Turkish Republic and the 2014 election and so on. Only for it to vaguely matter for half a page in this 70 page epos. (But worth it, I love learning stuff). I eventually got dear Emi as a beta, who immensely helped to improve this text. Let's all hope that after 6 years of work, it'll finally see the light of day.

#beareplies #someone-you-do-not-know #writing #storie nostre #oh i cannot tag all these bitches #as always I feel like my answer is messy all over the place and dogshit but lmao <3 it is what it is

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aeonianarchives · 1 year

Text

Far Beyond the Stars

Prologue | A Broken dream

AU: Space Age Word count: 1.6K Summery: Lindir loses his job as a sci fy writer so he decides to moves back to his hometown where chaos is sure to ensure TW: slight Homophobia

Taglist: @eunoiaastralwings | @aetherofthepen | @antares0606 (you seemed intrested in this AU so I hope you don't mind I tagged you)

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

Ever since Lindir was a small boy he had always been interesting in space from nights stargazing with his father on the roof which in hindsight was very dangerous and something Lindir would never do again, to books he read, he dreamed of the stars, he dreamed of life out there, exploring the stars was all Lindir ever dreamed off, he truly did wonder what was up there, but alas he could only turn his love for the stars into music and writing he could never get up there himself, for many reasons, he was too nervous to even sign up to a space course, and he much preferred fantasy so making space fantasy in song and writing was right up his alley.

Lindir dodged through two parked cars and ran across the street in between the cars to get to the otherside a small stall that was selling newspapers and magazines, it was painted green and made of metal, a man sat with his legs up on a table inside it, it had a rainshield going around it and above it, it read Newsstand, the papers where set on the table and held on the front of it the stall even had a copy of the rival publishers of Lindir’s he picked up the small book and flipped through the pages.

“Does anyone actually like this crap, I know people are calling this the space age but men on mars are barely realistic” the man said behind the counter his voice was husky and unpleasant, Lindir reached into his pocket and gave the man the money for the book.

“It has a certain charm to it I believe, some imagination to it, some people prefer stuff which is less realistic or has almost no chance of being true and leaves it to the imagination” Lindir said as his friend who was in the city at this time wrapped an arm around him.

“They are dreamers, let there dreams go to far and are even more broken when the caves in on top of them, I prefer the good old detective books” The man said

“This is the city where dreams are supposed to come true” Lindir said

“That's a child’s dream, I thought that too when I first came here all it brought me was bankruptcy and ruin that's how I ended up running a stall like this” The man said

Was this just a dream which would blow up in his face, he hadn’t been published on his publishers book since last august and that was 3 months ago, this work maybe his publishers final straw and the stallman was right his dream would cave in on him but he had come so far.

“Hey songbird did you catch the news, of the new mission, apparently it was a success even if we reached space after the soviets we could probably get to the moon before them” Elladan said pulling Lindir away from the stand and into a conversation, he was in his uniform unlike the last time Lindir saw him

“I did it was rather exciting to watch it on master Erestor’s tv set, I would of loved to see the launch in person next time” Lindir said as Elladan walked the elder to the office

“Well see you later, I have a meeting to get to there is a reason I’m in the big city wanna meet up at the old dinner we went to the first night we first got to the big city” Elladan questioned

“I would love to, but the dinner changed ownership last year, still the same place but different dinner” Lindir said Elladan nodded and ran off as Lindir walked in and up to his office.

“There he is the man of the hour what did you do with the drawing did your magic hands to there work”

“Galaxy has printed it’s new issue” Lindir said placing it down but the papers in the envelope which sat under his arm where stolen

“Hey give that back” Lindir said snatching at the paper

“Oh a Sherlock Holmes esque style of story on a collany within the moon’s surface, I didn’t know you could read anything but Sci Fi you live for it nor did I know you like British writers” The man Halor said as the women took it

“Lindir the main character of this is a women now you can write women well, you are a very well feminine man but the public wouldn’t like it, nor would they like the homosexual detective”

“Society has stepped back in time pirates and Vikings cared little of who anyone else liked so what if a man likes a man” Lindir snapped

“Lindir are you, there is nothing wrong with you if you are but this seems rather personal to you” halor questioned almost knowing or suspecting the answer

“So what if i am” Lindir said

“So if you are you don’t like me right” he asked just to make sure

“You lot are insufferable and no Halor I don’t even like you, your far from my type in men anyway if I was gay, which I am not but it would be totally fine if I was '' Lindir muttered to himself while sitting down, Lindir and the rest of them managed to convince the editor to send Lindir’s novel off, the hours ticked slowly for Lindir waiting to see if the publisher accepted to publish his work it was doubtful.

Lindir covered his ears with his hands, the clock ticking was way louder than normal it seemed, and time seemed to slow. It was painfully slow for Lindir, the editor got back and hung his hat and coat on the coat hanger.

“We are not publishing this months volume” The editor said

“It’s because of what I wrote isn’t it, because of the main character being a woman and homosexuals isn’t it” Lindir said

“No it’s not, there is nothing wrong with what you wrote but the worry is the public will not like the woman protagonist or the detective he has decided to play it safe and not publish it Mr Tyelkormo is also under a lot of stress as Galaxy is getting more reads than us, so we need to start on next month where we will release two books, but for the bad news which I have to be the unfortunate bearer of Mr Tyelkormo also said to let you know you have been let go Lindir, I’m sorry I really am but with the amount of times your story hasn’t been published in a row he has to let you go, don’t you have that job in the book store or the house your father owned in the suburbs” The Editor said

“No you know what he can’t fire me because I quit” Lindir said, getting his coat and hat and walking out. He sighed as he pulled his coat on as he walked out the building he made his way to the bookstore and opened the door.

“You don’t have a shift today Lindir” Erestor said as Lindir entered

“I know but I have free time, afterall Tyelkormo fired me” Lindir said making Erestor make an unsure noise

“You’re going to fire me as well I may as well move back to my fathers old house he hasn’t sold it” Lindir said

“No I’m not but I can’t bump up your pay or hire you for more days the shop is struggling I doubt it will stay open for much longer with that bigger book store just around the corner” Erestor said

“So what will you do when this place closes” Lindir said

“I won’t let it close, for as long as I can pay rent, but I will have to let you go at some point” Erestor said Lindir grumbled and left he would just find a job in the suburbs maybe he could become a self publishing author; that could work couldn’t it, or he could get hired in the old dive bar and sing instead of that one song on repeat from the broken Jukebox in the corner, that would be if Thranduil would hire him, dropping out to become an author didn’t work like dropping out worked for Elladan and Arwen they were semi successful, Arwen had an agent which was getting her hired he had seen her in commercials and Elladan as much as he was hyper to his credit Elladan knew what he was doing, he should of listen to Elrohir and Haldir and stayed in university with that part time job instead of finding a way out of university and moving to the big city just because he got the chance to he was so stupid to actually follow the chance he should of thought it through logically but he was to blinded by excitement to care back then.

He must of been to blinded by excitement to actually plan what to do if he got fired he should of done that he can’t afford rent for much longer given he had zero income now which meant he had to move back to his hometown, he could move into the house his dad had before he got the ranch get a part time at Thranduil’s bar and then help his father on the ranch, he didn’t really want to do that but it was what he had to do for now at least until a miracle happened which starts off his writing career or music one but he doubted that would happen any time soon, given his role of luck at the moment.

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

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thebiggestnope · 1 year

Note

Gus and Ozzy giving gifts!

Ozzy held up the handknit scarf for Gus to see and beamed at him. “Oh Gus, you made this yourself? How did you hide it from me while you were making it?”

“I have my ways.” His green eyes twinkled. “Do you like the color?”

“I love it! Bright purple to match my coat. It’s perfect.” He wrapped it around his neck and sat up straighter, delighted to sport Gus’s gift. “Are you ready for mine?”

“Yes please!” Gus closed his eyes and held up his hands. He felt a weighty object laid carefully on his palms. He opened his eyes and saw it: A rectangle neatly wrapped in green paisley wrapping paper, the edges crisp and perfect, the bow matching.

Ozzy, still wearing his scarf, looked supremely pleased with himself. “Go on. Open it.”

Gus undid the paper, letting it fall away to reveal a leather-bound tome. “Oh you got me a book!” He winked at him. “I hope it’s a good story.”

“It certainly is,” said Ozzy. But as Gus examined the gift, he grew puzzled. There was no title on the cover, and it didn’t seem to be a normal book at all. He leafed through it, and saw that the pages weren’t printed by a printing press. They were written by hand. Ozzy’s hand. He noticed the headings. Our first kiss. The picnic by the river. Dinner with the Madrigals. A hike up to the precipice.

He paused to read one of the entries.

“I told you we were going on a hike and took you up to the ridge. Your leg started to hurt so we stopped to have lunch looking out over the entire encanto. We kissed right as the sun started to set and you whispered that you wanted to hurry home so we could…”

“Ozzy, what is this?”

Ozzy grinned. “Well, a couple of months ago I overheard you telling Teo that you were worried about remembering things. Which is understandable, of course. You’ve lived a long life, and there’s so much to remember.”

Gus kept flipping the pages. There was more than just words here. Photos were taped inside. Mementos. Here were the pair of friendship bracelets that Mirabel Madrigal had made them last year, frayed because Gus and Ozzy had worn them until they’d fallen off. Here was a bus ticket from when Ozzy had come to visit Gus when he was in the city for treatment. Here was some confetti Ozzy had saved from a festival they’d attended over the summer.

“I wrote down some of my favorite memories so you’d always be able to reference them whenever you want. That way, it will be harder for you to forget the details.”

There were drawings in the book too, Gus realized. Here was a sketch of himself sleeping with Ms. Colombia in his lap. Here was a little watercolor of Gus’s paella. Ozzy was getting good, Gus noted.

“So now you can take this out and read all about our adventures. You can look through the life we’ve built together. You can hold it in your hands.”

Gus kept flipping pages and he noticed that shorter, more mundane entries were interspersed with the longer ones. The first time you met my sister was immediately followed A time when you wrapped your arms around my waist when I was cooking. Our one-year anniversary was juxtaposed against A typical bath for Gus and Ozzy. All of it presented of equal value. None of it taken for granted.

Tears pricked Gus’s eyes. “I… Oz, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you like it!”

“Of course I do. But…” He thought of the memory problems he’d been developing. Of the way his mind was beginning to falter and fade. Of the incident of getting lost on that horseback ride over the summer, and how he’d begged Viv to conceal it from Oswaldo. Of how he hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell Ozzy what the doctors had known for months: That Gus’s accident so many decades ago was going to give him early-onset dementia, and it would all be downhill from here.

Ozzy looked stricken by the tone of Gus’s voice. “But what?”

“But..” Gus swallowed and wiped his eyes. “But why is most of the book blank? You left so many pages empty.”

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” He gripped Gus’s knee. “So we can fill the rest of the pages together with all the years of memories we have to come.”

Even if Gus had wanted to tell Ozzy, he couldn’t have. His voice was lost to weeping.

#i opened a google doc and I chose violence #arcilla au #gus x ozzy #ozzy x gus

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froshele · 2 years

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I've been seeing a lot of people, because of the memorial day recently, talking about old letters. I got to thinking about paper, and the quality that books and scrolls have that makes the things in them "realer", and also about my own fear and the fear in my family.

I'm afraid of writing -- specifically of personal, epistolary, and creative writing -- and ashamed, Jewishly, of that fear. I think my community of origin is too.

I never wrote anything down where anyone could find it as a child, because if they saw it they would use it to hurt me -- people laughed at stuff I wrote as a kid, and once an aunt found a short story and decided it was a cry for help, which raised such a din that I was very glad she hadn't found my diary. That there was never a diary to find.

The fear of someone else being able to touch pieces of me like that and squirrel them away to use against me later, even pieces put into stories (which are packs of lies and also the only mirrors that don't lie), has haunted me my entire life. Disclose nothing deep and real to anyone, assume suspicious intent if they ask for it, why the hell does school want writing about personal experiences anyway, are we that self-absorbed?

Apparently this is very common in circles like mine, the people whose response to the Holocaust was to dysfunctionally beg our Deity to tell us what we'd done wrong, for generations. To assume that we could have prevented it, or fixed it, or... or. I don't know how to finish that sentence.

I don't think it can be finished. We certainly haven't finished it, and we keep blaming increasingly esoteric human deeds and habits for the tragedy, which no kind or length or style of wig or skirt could ever have caused.

We know. We say atrocious things memed on by everyone else in an attempt to know something else, to pin that enormity on someone. Hasidim are a shame culture, but we also understand Jewish guilt very well.

The fear of putting anything out in the world and having it reacted to seeped into my online life, once I got just over it enough to have one. My tumblr is barren, my ao3 is picked up and dropped again like I'm trying to grab it out of a hot coal oven, my twitter is a sort of sardonic, goofy version of me that occasionally rips into serious issues but not as rippingly as I do not have the strength to do, and basically nobody knows almost anything real about me.

I never kept a diary. All my letters were always very impersonal, short, like someone would read them and come knocking down the door. Letters to family -- what the hell did I think I was hiding?

I have a weird relationship to the concept of it being a mitzvah to write a sefer Torah - you know, the implications of the Jewish reverence for the written word, for the craft of scribal work, for putting ink on paper.

The entire point is that yes, if we can touch and see our cultural legacy, so can other people, who will occasionally take it as an invitation to try to kill us. But still we write. It makes me uneasy. In some ways I am probably very like any of my very distant ancestors who objected to writing down oral Torah, and for the same reasons.

I get it. I know why. Even regular books - it's not the same to read something from a screen. You have either a pdf of The Left Hand of Darkness, or you are holding in your hand The Left Hand of Darkness, the work. The book. People talk very rarely about the print copies of books that they have as copies, as collections of bound pages, the way that they talk very rarely about humans as collections of connected tissues, although when a book is well loved and its spine is showing wear, it is very clear that that's what it is.

A history, or a story, "has" to be written in a book to be Real, in the way that a doctor is Real in the merit of her white coat more than her degree, and the way that your boomer mom gets her conspiracy theories from wacko gematria themed nonsense printed decades ago by some Soviet university. I understand. Still, it was always dangerous to be writing, and I am a coward, and I am ashamed.

I realized that the reason I'm so nervous about the fact that who I am inherently entails a reverence for the written word (alongside a kind of hesitation about it), the reason I'm afraid of the power inherent to making anything real, putting it in a form that invites people to read, is that so many people turned away from or hurt me when I was real, and that I am epigenetically primed to be very sensitive about that.

It was over just... mundane... stuff, but then we don't write mundane stuff, really.

Our public life does not admit of entire realms of human experience, and we are all of us afraid to exist in full, still huddling in corners. Because if we stand up too tall, then like any traumatized person would, our own people cut us down. Be quiet, be invisible, be small, let it pass over, let it pass over, better if I hurt you, if we hurt you, than Them.

So it's shameful, I guess, my not doing anything about that fear. My refusal to give permanence and physical space and some sort of an immanent quality to writing, about or from myself, is shameful, in light of the fact that nothing I write could possibly be as dangerous to me or as important in general as Torah, which is written about and from both Hashem and all of us.

Sofrim still write. But I guess it's because they have to.

Nothing I write could endanger me as much as their unfettered, emotionally whole existence, complete with prolific writing and creation of religious text, endangered my great-grandparents, but maybe that's it. Maybe it means something that I, as a great-grandchild of people who saw that old calamity with their own eyes, whose pain runs in my veins, could be shamed into silence and even into not writing, not bothering to be silent and then get around the silence on little hidden papers.

There was a Yiddish literature, once. You can say there still is, but it's pale and kind of consumptive and pinched, writing even when it's fiction about how things should be to prevent another Shoah and not about things as they are. Obsessing about death. Picking at scabs, even when ostensibly it's about weddings and motherhood.

Hasidic women can, mostly, absolutely afford to buy washers. My mother would come to building laundromats to read the books, because if you can read English (or Russian, or French) you can access the mental world, the living myth of people whose every positive emotion is not tainted by that terrible memory. It's nice. I read the entirety of Earth's Children as a child being kept busy while my mother read some type of awful smut in the corner. (The yentas would of course never snitch about the smut. They had dog-eared it themselves.)

Mostly everyone is reading things from before anyway, when they do read Yiddish. The things from back when people could write -- you think that's an aspersion on the quality of modern prose? It's an observation.

I get teary seeing people learn my language and publish writing in it, both because good for them and it and us, and also because I do not have the privilege of making that writing. I am carrying a kind of pain that does not admit of writing about anything worth reading. I am ashamed.

The next great Yiddish author will probably be someone who came to it fresh-faced and able to talk about loss without talking about that loss, or love without talking about lost love or about, you know, war crimes. Someone who came as a returning immigrant comes, in solidarity but removed at least a little from the calamity. They will say things that none of us can say, and we will all quietly resent them for being able to access the power and audacity to write, and maybe we will refuse to read them. That will be why, but it will anyway not be the same as if we had found the ability to write again.

What we lost, when we were silenced! I thought the fear of writing was only mine, but my grandfather was born at the end of the war, and he never writes anything real and true and of himself, either. Poetry, yes -- but not in the right language and not on the right subjects. Not on any subject that isn't, at its core, that same old pain.

I am supposed - we are all supposed, per the sentiment conveyed by the fact that it's a mitzvah to have in writing the text people want to kill us over - to write through that unease, to carry on having a legacy and a full existence anyway.

I can't. I'm a coward. We're all cowards. I'm ashamed, and afraid, and very small. There was no point to writing this except to say that I had had that thought, and that I am very, very wary of allies who say "never again" and do nothing to make that true, not even writing about it.

We're still healing -- haltingly, not knowing how, without help from more successful kindred (although even those kindred are always making movies about what we have an impulse, like dying animals, to hide away with) -- from the first one. Never again is a very heavy promise to make in the 2020s, 5780s-- I would understand if allies accepted that they have not the strength to make it, that they're stretched too thin and afraid too much of their genocide coming to them to make promises about ours.

But they do, they do say never again, and then people with none of any of these kinds of rot in their blood ignore antisemitism happening in front of them. Or they knowingly contribute to it.

I understand if intergenerational trauma makes it difficult to reach out and touch hands with other traumatized people, but I guess I'm always going to have a little bit of jealous resentment for the untraumatized. And hate -- the only hate I think I can feel is very specifically for the privileged antisemite, antiziganist, advocate of the trampling of others' human rights based on imagined danger and hateful projection.

This is a bit late for Holocaust Memorial Day, but think of your local tumblr frog the next time you punch a Nazi, or remind someone that there's no excuse not to be educated on what it takes for others to stay safe online.

Call out dog whistles when you see them. The sharks cannot be trusted when they say that they only eat one type of fish -- if we are gone, they will come next for you. Blood is blood, and sharks have to keep moving to breathe.

#yom hashoah #jumblr #judaism #trauma #intergenerationalhealing #writing

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