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h4ndwr1tten · 9 months

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𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭?

characters — nanami kento x reader

note — i'm so sorry this came out so late. if you didn't see my other posts, i mentioned that i basically rewrote this bc the original was so bad, and then i went on vacation. it's still kinda bad i'm sorry. dividers by benkeibear.

cw — not proofread (is anything i write even proofread?), established relationship, kinda ooc nanami, pregnancy, few mentions of sex, mentions of birth control, mentions of pregnancy symptoms, a lot of crying, sappy shit, angst, hurt/comfort. lmk if i missed any!

synopsis — after a hellish week caused by a misunderstanding and sickening fear, you decide you'd had enough of not speaking to your boyfriend and reveal your secret.

part 1 | part 2

for the past week, you've noticed that nanami had been taking on longer shifts than normal. in fact, it wasn't normal, because if there was one thing he absolutely hated in this world, it was working overtime. he'd leave for the school early, sometimes before you'd wake up, and come home past dinner or when you were already in bed. what was even more surprising (and hurtful) to you was that he was taking more time out of his day to put up with gojo satoru and his antics, rather than be around you.

you knew he was avoiding you. it was quite obvious, and nanami made no effort to hide it either. during the now short amounts of time he was home, he barely spoke and looked at you. this must have been what it felt like to him on that night, you realized.

you also knew that nanami would come around and talk to you. or, at least, you hoped he would. you knew him like no other—your boyfriend was a rational man who always thought things carefully and through. you convinced yourself that he was still upset and in need of space to think about that night, and maybe even what you were up to during that. maybe he was thinking of the possibility of you seeing someone else, having feelings for someone who wasn't him. by letting him ignoring you, you believed you were giving him the time and space he needed.

throughout the week, your pregnancy symptoms had become more prominent. you also found out that your birth control expired, which explained why you had gotten pregnant. you felt stupid for not checking the date. you began experiencing morning sickness, strange cravings, fatigue, even mood swings. but nanami wasn't there to see it happen. he'd already be at the school when you would be hunched over the toilet. he'd be on his lunch break while you'd be eating ice cream topped with pickles. you would be asleep half the time he was gone, which would help prevent the overthinking you faced while you were awake. you would be elated to hear him come home, but then tear up right after when you realized it would be another night without hearing his voice, without feeling his arms around you.

everyday you thought of revealing to him that you were pregnant with his child. and everyday, you thought of how he might be enraged and leave you for good. but despite the stomach churning fear you had, you were desperate to hear him speak to you. desperate to be held and kissed by him, to be looked at as if you were the most ethereal being in the world. you were desperate to hear nanami tell you he loves you, and always will.

after long thought and contemplation, debating with yourself about whether to confess or not, you came to a conclusion. you had had enough of this distance between you and the man you loved. tonight, when he came home, you were going to tell him the truth.

you were exhausted. you felt like if you blinked once, your eyes wouldn't open for another 9 hours. but you had to stay up. you were waiting on nanami to walk through the door.

and luckily for you, he did. you heard the faint click of the lock followed by soft footsteps padding into the kitchen, where you were waiting with a plate of food for him.

nanami took one brief glance at you before looking back down, not bothering to greet you. you inhaled deeply, weakly fighting back tears.

"hi, ken," you started nervously. he didn't reply, but he began to occupy himself with the mail you left out on the counter, telling you that he was listening.

"i made you food," you continued, "but it might be a little cold. i made it earlier but you didn't—"

"i already ate, thank you," nanami cut you off, not meeting your eyes.

"oh."

your heart began to beat erratically, and tears began to flood your eyes. you kept thinking to yourself that he's upset, and for all he knows you might be cheating on him. you reminded yourself why you were doing this, and that you had to push through if you wanted this misunderstanding to end.

"how was your day?" you asked shakily, opening your eyes despite the tears that were still there.

your heart sunk lower when you saw that he was making his way to the bedroom, and you swore it cracked when you hear the barely there "good" and a door shutting.

with your elbows propped on the counter and keeping your trembling frame up, you buried your face in your hands. this went much smoother in your head. you imagined nanami to have accepted the dinner you made him, take a bite of it at the least, and let you talk to him. but he was refusing to let down this cold front he kept up around you. you were beginning to have second thoughts about telling him.

but you couldn't keep hiding it, you knew that. so, wiping away any stray tears and taking a few deep breaths in, you made your way to the bedroom.

you found nanami on the bed, already dressed in his pajamas and hair free of any product. his glasses were set neatly on the nightstand and his phone was in his hand. nanami wasn't the kind of person to be addicted to his phone, and even though you've been going through it for a while now, him not paying you any mind and more attention to his phone was painful.

"ken," you muttered, trying to keep your voice steady.

without craning his neck, nanami looked up at you with his eyebrow raised. he seemed tired, exasperated, and looked as though he didn't want to talk but just wanted to get it over with.

"can we talk? please?" your voice was thick with emotion, the please coming out softer and cracking.

nanami sighed before tossing his phone onto the bed. he finally, for the first time in days, looked at you and held your gaze expectantly.

"go on."

letting out a breath you didn't know you held in, you began slowly, "i am so... so, so sorry, kento. i know i hurt you and i made you believe that i would see someone else. and i'm not, i promise you. i could never love anyone else the way i love you."

nanami's eyes softened, and you could practically feel the worries of you cheating dissipate from him.

"so what was with you night?" nanami asked, the most he's ever said to you so far.

you almost choked on a sob when you realized what you had to do next.

"o-okay, uh... while you were at work, i found something out," you basically whispered. there was no need for extra details. you were getting straight to the point.

slowly, you turned to the dresser behind you and reached for your purse. your hands shook violently as you dug inside for the piece of plastic that made your life a living hell this past week. as you clutched it tightly in your hand, knuckles whitening, you closed your eyes and tilted your head up. you couldn't control the tears any longer, and the sobs were growing harder to keep down.

"love?"

the name caused a whimper to escape you. you inhaled shakily, trying to reduce your crying before turning around with the test results hidden behind your palm. as you walked towards nanami, you felt as though this was the last time you would ever see him, speak to him, and be around him.

with a quivering hand, you hand him the test.

"i'm so, so sorry," you whisper.

nanami flipped the test over, his eyes scanning every inch of the device. it took him a few seconds to realize what it was, and by the way his eyes widened and expression contorted into one of shock, you knew he had seen the results.

and when he didn't say anything, you swore your heart had actually broken.

"i'm sorry," you repeated through a heavy sob, no longer able to keep in your cries.

you turned around, back faced to nanami as you continued to cry into your hands. the lack of response was a response in itself, you believed. you knew it was over. you knew you were going to have to pack all your things, find somewhere else to stay, and raise this child alone.

that is, until you felt a gentle hand on your waist and a quiet voice behind you say, "y/n, look at me. please."

so you did, hesitantly. you turned back around and peeled your hands away from your tear stained face, but avoided eye contact, or even looking at his face. keeping your head down, you were afraid of what you would see, or of what you would read.

then both hands came to your cheeks, cupping them carefully and tilting your head up. your eyes met his, and instead of finding the anger you were expecting, you found comfort and understanding.

"is it mine?" he asked first, likely to confirm that you hadn't been with anyone else.

"yes," you replied without hesitating. "kento, it's only ever buh—been you."

he nodded, believing you completely. he began wiping away your tears with the pads of his thumbs, even though more would fall every time he wiped at them.

"y/n, why didn't you tell me sooner?" nanami whispered. he wasn't angry with you, however. just a bit hurt and curious.

"because, kento!" your voice coming out steadier than expected. "you have your whole life planned out. you have goals and dreams and you know what you want in life. i couldn't, i can't ruin that for you."

"and i was scared, ken. i was scared that you'd get mad and leave me and that you wouldn't want anything to do with our kid. and—and maybe i'm selfish for not telling you, maybe i'm selfish for hiding something so important, so life changing, and maybe that makes me a bad girlfriend. but i couldn't let you go like that. i love you too much to do that."

nanami now had watery eyes at your confession. despite still feeling a bit upset at the fact that you had kept this from him, he fully understood and didn't hold it against you. and despite already knowing, he even felt elated to hear that you loved him so dearly.

"y/n," he sighed, "i would never, ever get mad at you for this."

you froze, sniffling and looking up at him. the curiosity in your eyes urging him to go on.

"you becoming pregnant wasn't—isn't on you. this was mostly caused by me," nanami said, hoping it would ease and erase the feeling of everything being your fault.

"but i was stupid and didn't realize my birth control was expired," you replied.

"even if, y/n. we both did this, we both had sex, we are both in this together. this is our child."

"i know that, ken," you sighed, hiccuping shortly after.

"then you do know that since this is a result of both our actions, i will be there for you, for us? there is no way in hell i would leave you for getting pregnant, i'm the one who got you pregnant in the first place. yes, this is life changing. yes, i have goals, i have plans for the future—for our future. because every time i think about it, you are there. it doesn't matter if our timing isn't right, it doesn't matter if we aren't married yet. i am extremely confident that one day, i'll put a ring on your finger and we will spend eternities together, with this child. do you understand, y/n, love?"

his ramble was so sweet and so genuine, just as all his other rambles were. no matter the situation, whether you'd be feeling insecure or you both got into an argument, nanami never failed to reassure you and make you feel better. they were waves of relief and comfort, like sudden shelter from pouring rain. like being bundled up in blankets and full of warmth after shivering for so long. like a breath of fresh, cool air after a steamy shower.

like nanami telling you that everything was alright, and no matter how tough the situation felt, he would stand by you.

"yes," you breathed, "i understand."

"good," nanami whispered back.

still holding your face in his hands, he pulled you towards him and planted a lingering kiss on your forehead, and then a peck before removing one hand from your face and down to your hip. nanami squeezed you gently and walked you both to the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling you into his lap. he slid his arm around your middle, then moved the hand still on your face to the back of your head and gently guided you to the crook of his neck. you wrapped your own arms over his shoulders and squeezed him tight, the way he was doing you. you continued to pour out whatever remaining feelings of sadness and relief, quietly sniffling and whimpering into his neck, all the while nanami would softly rub up and down your back, occasionally patting, combing his fingers through your hair and scalp, and whispering sweet nothings and reassuring affirmations into your ear. leaving sweet kisses around your face, into your hair, on your shoulder.

when your cries died down and all that was left were hiccups, you quietly muttered, "i'm sorry for doubting you and thinking you'd leave."

"shh, don't apologize," nanami assured you. "i understand. i'm sorry i thought you were seeing someone else, and i am truly sorry for giving you the cold shoulder and not talking things out with you like an adult. i was hurt and afraid to face the truth, but i realize i was wrong. do you forgive me?"

pulling away from his neck, you looked into his sincere amber eyes, cupping his cheeks. nodding, you answered, "of course."

a small smile graced his lips, followed by a gentle kiss on yours. pulling away, you tilted your head down and rested your forehead on his. both of your eyes shut, your arms squeezing each other in silent reassurance.

"i love you, y/n, and our baby, and this future we're creating together."

m. list

#TRASHHH #i'm sorry this took forever #nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami x you #nanami angst #nanami kento angst #hurt/comfort #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk angst #jujutsu kaisen angst #nanami kento #jjk #jujutsu kaisen

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defectivevillain · 7 months

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this broken design, ch14

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary: That familiar analytical gleam in your eyes lives in Hannibal’s mind as he sinks his teeth into his prey. Despite your departure hours ago, Hannibal sees you sitting across from him at the table. Dining alone has never bothered him; yet, right now, he can’t help but desire your company—your scintillating conversation, your sharp wit, your clever smirk. Indeed, his table feels uncharacteristically empty. Hannibal stares at the chair across from him—the same chair he’s grown accustomed to seeing you sit at—and takes another bite. Flavor explodes on his tongue, yet you are what dominates his thoughts.

Your experience in criminal profiling means that you've met a wide variety of people from all different walks of life. You've stared down hardened criminals and fought for your life against people hellbent on killing you. Even so, something about the FBI's new target, the Chesapeake Ripper, seems to elude you.

Then you meet Hannibal Lecter: an enigmatic jigsaw of a man with jagged corners and misshapen pieces.

Fortunately, you've always been rather good at puzzles.

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

Your stay at the hospital is hellish, as you’re constantly accompanied by a mind numbing boredom that refuses to leave. You understand that you have to give your body time to heal—you’re suffering from a gunshot wound, after all. However, you have absolutely nothing resembling entertainment to occupy your time with. Instead, you’re left to slowly decay under thin sheets and the nurse’s observant gaze. Your side still burns, but with each passing hour, it gets a little better.

Before you can die of boredom, however, you get a visitor. You glance at the clock, only to find that you’ve been deceived. It’s only been a few hours since Jack’s visit. The thought troubles you. Time is taunting you.

The door to your room slides open suspensefully, before revealing a familiar face. Beverly stands in the doorway, an inappropriately devilish grin on her face. It only takes a few seconds for you to see through the happiness in her smile, straight to the tightness behind the gesture and the stiffness of her posture. She’s been worried for you. The thought makes you feel extremely guilty. Truly, you’ve been a rather horrible friend as of late. Sure, you’ve had a lot of other things going on. Still, Beverly has always made time for you. Why weren’t you able to do the same for her?

“Hey,” Beverly says. Her gaze flits about your form with disinterest and you’re once again reminded of your gratitude for Beverly’s honesty. She’s one of the only people who never looked at you strangely—with fear, apprehension, disgust, pity. “Missed ya.”

“Missed you too, Bev,” you respond, sending her a smile that probably looks more tired than relieved. She seems to appreciate the thought nonetheless. Beverly looks around the room for a moment, before settling in the same chair that Hannibal was sitting in only moments ago. Somehow, she seems to add a sort of brightness to the rather unremarkable space. You tap your fingers against the sheets restlessly. “You just missed all the fun—Jack tore me a new one.” You sigh.

“Hardly,” Beverly huffs in amusement. Her gaze flits from the wall to meet your eyes with an uncharacteristic sincerity. “Jack was worried about you, you know. He’s had a rather short fuse for the past few days; it was driving everyone crazy at the Institute.”

“The past few days?” You manage to ask. You’re hoping you misinterpreted that statement. Surely you haven’t missed several days. Surely you weren’t knocked out for that long.

Beverly’s expression is sympathetic and you feel any confidence you had promptly fade from existence. “You were unconscious for three days,” she says. You don’t know what to say, so you opt for pinching the bridge of your nose and pretending not to notice the pain in your side or the fatigue clinging to your form. “We were all worried, of course,” Beverly continues, as if trying to keep you distracted from the admission. “Me, Jack, Price, Alana-”

“Alana?” You interrupt.

“Well, of course,” your friend says with furrowed brows. Somehow, Beverly’s remark reminds you of your friendship with Alana—the friendship that you had been purposefully avoiding for so long. Ever since she kissed you, you’ve been avoiding her. That’s surely a justifiable course of action, but hearing about Alana’s concern for you makes you think of all the memories you have with her.

After all, Alana was your first friend at the Institute. She stuck up for you in front of Jack, when you were a nameless rookie and he was the intimidating superior officer that you were afraid of speaking out to. Alana was your psychiatrist for a while, too. Dr. Bloom is different from the majority of the medical professionals you’ve worked with. She doesn’t treat you like an endangered animal in a zoo exhibit. She never once tried to poke or prod at you—manipulate you in the way so many others do. Alana was really a breath of fresh air during your time of need.

“I need to talk to her later,” you murmur. You intend for the remark to be a note to yourself, but your companion hears it anyway.

“Sure,” Beverly answers unobtrusively. “Hey, tell me about it?”

It doesn’t take you long to understand what she’s getting at. “Gideon?” you ask, unable to keep a bit of suspicion from your voice, “Why?”

“I’ve heard bits and pieces, rumors, but I want to hear it from you,” Beverly admits. “You don’t have to tell me right this instant. Just…” She breaks off, evidently unable to find the words.

“It’s fine, I’ll tell you,” you respond. You think you owe Beverly this explanation, if only for how neglectful of a friend you’ve been the past few weeks. You tell her as much and she waves the remark off, which only incites more guilt within you. You’ve been entirely negligent and neglectful—something you seek to repair in the coming time.

Somehow, reliving the kidnapping is actually helpful. By recounting what happened, you can start to come to terms with the events that unfolded. Looking back on it now, you realize that you had no choice but to kill Gideon. Indeed, just as Jack said, he would have killed you first. After killing Chilton and Lounds, there’s no telling what he would have done next—except, you realize with mounting dread, go after Alana.

“That’s… very shitty,” Beverly admits once you’ve explained everything, seemingly lost for the right words. You relate to the sentiment. Truly, the entire situation is beyond words.

“I know,” you say, acknowledging the remark before choosing to push the conversation onto lighter topics. You glance around the room with irritation. “Now I’m just stuck in this fucking room. I’m dying of boredom.” Beverly laughs, her eyes gleaming.

“You’re going to love me for this,” she smirks, a mischievous gesture that reminds you of how cunning she can be. You send her a quizzical look and she makes a show of rolling her eyes. “I brought clothes. Just change into these and they’ll never notice you leaving.” She glances at the door behind her before looking back to you, waiting to see what you’ll say.

“You’re my savior,” you remark sincerely. Beverly smiles triumphantly, before offering you a hand. You take the proffered assistance and she steadies you as you leave the mattress. To your surprise, you’re able to walk on your own—albeit with less speed and composure than usual. You step into the bathroom and close the door behind you, before finally taking off your damned hospital gown. The thing is horrid and you take immense pleasure in shoving it into the absurdly small trash can in the corner of the room. Thankfully, you took a shower this morning, so you won’t have to put clean clothes on over dirtied skin. The clothes Beverly brought don’t fit super well, but they’re leagues better than that drab hospital gown. You stare at yourself in the mirror for a few seconds, unsurprised by what you see.

You look different. Haunted, hallowed. Your face almost looks more gaunt, your eyes more dull. You didn’t emerge from captivity unscathed, that’s for damn sure. The wound ripping the skin at your side is proof of that. There’s also a jagged scar cutting diagonally down your face, reaching from the edge of your temple and falling dangerously close to your left eye. You bring a hand up to the cut, wincing at the brief pain the motion incites.

A harsh knock on the door rips you out of your self-inflicted torturous reverie. You take a deep breath and regard your reflection one more time before leaving the bathroom. You stand in front of Beverly and she looks you up and down.

“Not bad,” Beverly says.

“Jack is going to kill me if he finds out,” you realize aloud.

“Which is why he won’t,” Beverly responds confidently. Her eyebrows furrow at your statement, as if the very suggestion of failure is laughable. “Find out, that is.” You click your tongue and grin at her; she then grins back. Once the elevator doors open, the two of you walk through the long hall and towards the exit. Your departure is painfully slow, but within a few minutes, the two of you are standing outside of the hospital building. The afternoon sun is bright today and the sunshine warms your skin. You feel a relieved smile growing on your face. Beverly says she’ll pull the car up to the driveway and walks off towards her car. Moments later, you’re successfully seated in the passenger seat of your friend’s van.

The car ride is quicker than you expect. It’s been a while since you’ve gotten the chance to catch up with Beverly, so you’re happy to hear her amusing anecdotes and exciting stories. Truly, it feels as if only a few minutes pass before she’s pulling into your driveway. Your friend puts the car in park and turns to regard you, a conflicted expression on her face. You feel rather the same in that regard. You haven’t been home in several days now and, somehow, it almost feels as if you’re intruding on someone else’s life. You’re preoccupied with the past, as you listen to the cicadas humming in the trees nearby. What if you hadn’t gone after Alana? Would Gideon have killed her? He very well could have. Despite your near certainty that you did the right thing, you can’t rid yourself of the guilt and regret. You should’ve done things differently. You should’ve-

“Hey,” Beverly interjects, her voice cutting through the rushing static in your ears. Her concerned eyes meet yours. “Don’t beat yourself up about it—any of it. You did the best you could.” As always, Beverly knows exactly what to say. She knows not to tell you that you made the right choice. She knows not to remind you of Gideon’s criminality. Her hand reaches out to clasp yours and you lean over the median to embrace her. Beverly hugs you back and, for a moment, it feels like everything will be okay.

Even despite Beverly’s reassurances, there is blood on your hands as you wave goodbye to her and step into your home. The scar on your face burns with recognition, remorse. Crimson pools color the ground at your feet and your victims follow your every step, taunting you from the shadows. You are haunted by the events that transpired and the choices you made. You had spent so long in a false state of overconfidence, thinking yourself immune from it all. As you walk into your bedroom, a blaring sound greets your ears. You walk over to your alarm clock and disable the alarm, both satisfied and unsettled by the silence that follows. How long did you spend ignoring the shrieking alarms in the recesses of your mind?

Darkness draws the curtains over the day. Sleep comes easily because, despite it all, you’re exhausted. Unfortunately, your slumber doesn’t feel much longer than the blink of an eye, and you wake to find your skin soaked with sweat. Your stomach growls and you resign to eating a small breakfast before tackling your hygiene. Once you’ve eaten, you choose to take a shower. The hot stream of water tickles your skin and you have to be careful not to let the water fall directly on your wound. The last thing you need is a burn on top of a gunshot wound—that would add insult to injury (literally). Your shower takes a bit longer than normal, mainly because your left arm is restricted in movement. By the time you’re turning the knob to stop the water, your left side is burning from the exertion. You grit your teeth and step out of the shower, grabbing a towel with your right hand. What follows is a rather awkward toweling-off, as you struggle to dry off without aggravating your injuries. You take several minutes to carefully rebandage your wound, before turning to the pile of fresh clothes on the counter near the sink.

The act of changing into clean clothes proves to be more difficult than you initially expect. The most minute of movements can further irritate your injury. Even the attire you chose—a simple shirt and your most comfortable sweatpants—seems to cling to your form. It feels as if your skin is stretched far too tight over your bones. Despite your expectations, you only feel worse after the shower.

You’re not out of the bathroom for more than two minutes before you hear the doorbell ring. Dread coils in your chest and you walk to the door, opening it before you think of the potential consequences. The door swings to the side to reveal Hannibal standing on your doorstep. A drop of water slides down your temple. You bat at it with your hand, before regarding Hannibal.

“Hello,” you manage to say, trying your best to suppress the several different emotions threatening to surface. Your heart is pounding uncomfortably within the confines of your ribcage. You feel your nails digging into your palms as you come to terms with the situation Hannibal has just forced you into. You can’t exactly turn him away at the door—especially knowing that he loathes rudeness and could easily kill you for the offense. Although, in reality, he could kill you regardless. Why are you still allowing this to happen? Why are you still complicit?

"May I come in?" You bite the inside of your cheek. He is only asking to maintain the pretense that you have control over the situation.

"Sure," you acquiesce guardedly. The wound at your side stings in remembrance. Trepidation makes a home in your chest. Seeing Hannibal once more forces your mind to conjure images of him in surgical attire, slicing through your sutures and putting them back when finished. A not insignificant part of you wonders why it took you so long to come to terms with the danger that Hannibal wields with ease. How many times have you invited him into your home? You've been a fool.

Hannibal is unaware of your thought process. He's regarding you with mild interest, as if he'd like to dissect your thoughts. You have no intentions of actually speaking on those thoughts, so he'll just have to keep wondering, you think wryly. His voice cuts through the air. "Your departure from the hospital yesterday-"

“What about it?” You interject, stepping past him to close the door before returning to your original position. If Hannibal is annoyed by the interruption, he doesn’t show it. You’re skating on extremely thin ice here. The most minute of gestures could send you into the icy depths of his anger. Sure, you’ve grown accustomed to feeling like that in Hannibal’s presence. That sentiment seems to be amplified today, though. You’re inexplicably taken back to your days at the Academy. You were a wide-eyed recruit, once—filled with the optimism and naïveté of someone who hadn’t seen the field. Instructors taught you everything you needed to know about criminals: how to apprehend them, how their minds worked.

None of it could have prepared you for what followed. Your first mission left you with a nasty bruise on your jaw and blood-spattered clothes. You hadn’t spoken for days after, and remained shut up in your house until Jack Crawford forced himself inside and sat next to you. At the time, you hadn’t known the man at all. You expected him to chew you out, to start yelling at you for your uselessness. Crawford did nothing of the sort. Instead, he simply… spoke to you. He recalled his training days, his first mission when he stared down a murderer of seventeen innocents. You found solace in knowing that you weren’t overreacting, that the Head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit himself expressed similar feelings once upon a time.

“This job isn’t for the faint of heart,” Crawford had remarked “You have to come to terms with the fact that some people are past saving.” The thought troubled you. (It still troubles you.)

“Even if we can save them?” You choked out, your voice raspy from neglect. If the man was surprised by you breaking your silence, he never commented on it.

“Even then,” Crawford sighed. At that moment, he looked wizened beyond his years: a man who had seen his fair share of violence and maleficence. Crawford turned back to you, a determined look in his eyes. “We deal with monsters here, who are infinitely more cruel than you thought possible. They will come in different shapes, sizes, personalities. But there’s one thing that every single one of these people has in common… They’re all dangerous.”

“But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Crawford asked. “I know you’re talented—I keep an eye on all the recruits. You could be a member of the Behavioral Analysis Unit within a few years. You have a good eye, a good feel for how this works. Excellent shot.” The praise barely registered to you in your tortured state. Now, it brings a ghost of a smile to your face. “But this work… it changes you.” Spoken from experience, judging by the resigned look on Crawford’s face.

“You can leave this behind,” Crawford continued, his lips set in a thin line. “Get another job. Have a normal life.” He pushed himself up to stand over you. You still remember the look on his face in that moment: how his eyes gleamed with firm resolve. “Or you can walk out of this door with me, back to headquarters.” It hadn’t taken you long to come to a decision. After a few seconds, you got to your feet and followed after him.

Now, as you stand across from a killer in your entryway, you wonder if that answer was a mistake. Where would you be, if you weren’t here? The thought is pointless to consider. It’s far too late for contemplation.

Hannibal says your name and you’re snapped out of your trance. He’s staring at you expectantly, but you haven’t the faintest idea what he is looking for. “You were assigned to bedrest for three more days,” Hannibal eventually says.

“And?” You ask, moving past him to walk into the living room. Hannibal follows behind you, a silent shadow at your back. A shiver rolls down your spine as you walk the short distance with your back to him, almost entirely vulnerable. You move to sit on your sofa and Hannibal takes a seat at the armchair across from it. The positioning reminds you of your sessions with him. You grit your teeth.

“Does Jack know that you’ve returned home?” Hannibal asks, raising his eyebrows slightly. His gaze pins you to the sofa.

He’s playing dirty with that remark and he knows it. “What do you think?” You ask, unable to keep a slight hint of sardonicism from leaking into your voice. Hannibal only raises his eyebrows. You sigh and lean back against your sofa. “Of course Jack doesn’t know. He would murder me, to put it lightly.” The thought prompts some guilt to rise in you. You forget the feeling when Hannibal inexplicably rises to his feet and rounds the coffee table, standing over you.

“Your wound needs consistent medical attention.” He demands.

“It’s fine,” you argue, “It doesn’t even hurt.” That is a complete lie. Hannibal seems to know that, if the skeptical pinch to his lips is anything to go by. He was a surgeon, after all. You had forgotten— tried to forget , your brain supplies. The air between the two of you is silent. The way Hannibal looms over you now makes you nervous. You don’t know what to say to break through this seemingly insurmountable tension.

“Allow me?” It’s phrased like a question, yet you feel as if you can’t say no. You nod, not trusting the words that could fall from your lips. Hannibal takes an impossible step closer and you push yourself up, maneuvering so that you lie across the couch. You pull up your shirt, feeling strangely self-conscious. Still, Hannibal is—was—a medical professional. This isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before.

Hannibal hums and looks down at the bandage covering the wound. You’re sure he will get a good idea of the wound’s progress without lifting the entire thing off. His fingertips glide across the skin near the bandage and your skin prickles. For what seems like an eternity, his hand lingers. Just as you’re about to let out a sarcastic quip, he lightly tugs at the edge of the bandage and lifts it up.

“See?” You say, feeling the need to break the silence settling in the space. Hannibal’s gaze is focused on your wound with intense precision and you have to wonder just what he’s looking for. You’ve seen your fair share of bullet wounds, but you’re not usually this involved in the healing process. You can't remember the last time you got shot in the field. It must’ve been a few years ago, at least.

Hannibal is staring at you now. His eyes shine crimson in the light. He clearly doesn’t believe you. You sigh. “Fine,” you acquiesce, “It still hurts. But you have to understand, I was going crazy in that hospital room.” You meet his eyes to further emphasize your point.

“And the truth comes out,” Hannibal murmurs. He’s staring down at his hand, which you’re still holding for some reason. You’re quick to release your grip. “As it is wont to do.” That latter remark is murmured under his breath and it is clearly meant as a note to himself. You hear it anyway. The statement is foreboding, and you almost have to wonder if it’s an omen. “Do you have fresh bandages for tomorrow? You should change them daily.”

“Yes, I do,” you respond detachedly, smoothing down the bandage he had pulled up to investigate the wound. You hastily pull your shirt back down, feeling strangely exposed. “And I changed the bandage this morning.” You had to shower, after all.

For a fraction of a moment, you swear Hannibal looks disappointed. You’re quick to dismiss the notion. There is nothing he would get from bandaging your wound in such a manner. It’s not like he can steal your kidney again, you think. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the dark humor you seem to be using to cope.

“I will see you tonight for your appointment,” Hannibal announces, smoothly exiting the room before you can so much as raise an objection. As you walk towards the front door, you begin to recognize the remark for what it is: a demand. You have no choice in the matter. Arguably, the luxury of choice was ripped from your hands when you embraced complicity. You have no one but yourself to blame, you think begrudgingly.

The rest of the day passes without incident, thankfully. You spend most of the time resting off and on. Your wound still hurts, but it’s a marked improvement from how it felt when you first woke up. You desperately want to make yourself busy by cleaning your house, but your side protests any activity more strenuous than walking. You eventually settle for watching something on television, allowing your mind to drift as the bright colors assault your vision.

Before long, it’s time for you to leave for your appointment with Hannibal. You contemplate changing into more formal clothes, before remembering how laborious the process of dressing was this morning. Besides, Hannibal already saw you earlier. There’s no point in trying to pretend that you’re well-collected and composed, you huff. Mind made up, you grab your car keys and leave the house.

Since you’re dreading the session, the drive passes particularly quickly. You’re so preoccupied with your thoughts this evening that you don’t realize Hannibal has been waiting for you to enter his office until he says your name. You get up from your seat in the waiting room and follow him through the doorway, your heart in your throat. For some reason, you get the feeling that you won’t be making it out of here alive. Your eyes flit about the office and you see the space in a new light. Anything and everything sharp can be a weapon. The only exit to the room is the door you just entered through.

There’s a hand on your shoulder and you’re briefly jarred back to reality. Hannibal motions to the chairs and you follow his direction. Unsurprisingly, the chairs feel impossibly close today. If you were to really sprawl, you would likely hit Hannibal. You cross one leg over the other and try to subtly shrink into the back of the chair. Hannibal’s speech greets your ears, but your thoughts reduce his voice to a frantic rhythm. There’s a distant screeching sound reverberating in your skull and your skin feels as if it’s buzzing. You let your hands rest on your thighs, resisting the urge to let your hand rest on the pistol at your belt. You came armed today—almost as if anticipating something on the horizon.

“What would you like to talk about?” Hannibal asks. You frown internally. You’re not sure what to talk about. You almost don’t want to talk at all. Hannibal must recognize that, because he falls silent, too.

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you instead retreat to your mind palace. The gilded white pillars are tinted with crimson. There are muddied footsteps tracking through the foyer. A clock ticks hauntingly, creating a loud rhythm in your ears. You walk down the hall, only to find Abel Gideon’s corpse. You’re thrown back to captivity, to a gunshot ringing in your ears and the horrible thump of a corpse hitting the ground. Your neck aches in remembrance. Abel Gideon’s body looks the same as you left it: a bullet carving a hole through his temple, a shallow cut near the back of his neck. The flooring is red and Gideon’s blood almost seeps into it, creating a murky crimson that is nearly indistinguishable from what it was before.

Abel Gideon was but one man. One criminal, one villain, one monster. There are dozens, hundreds, thousands more. You contemplate the thought as you continue down the hallowed hall of your mind palace. Garret Jacob Hobbs, Franklyn Froideveaux, Abel Gideon… They were only the first tumultuous waves on a pitch black ocean, swirling madly about. You can feel the beginnings of a harsh wind whipping at your skin, rustling your clothes. The skies are dark. The storm is yet to come.

Before long, you realize you have to leave. There is only so long you can stare off into space before Hannibal will grow suspicious. You close your eyes for a few seconds, before opening them again to find yourself back in Hannibal’s office. You’re restless. The chair threatens to swallow you in its embrace. Your fingers are tapping against the arms of the chair, your foot tapping against the ground. You need to move. You need to escape. You need to-

It is a twisted irony, you think as a single word slips from your lips. You’ve spent so long pretending, feigning ignorance. You think back to that fateful moment all those months ago, when Hannibal took you to his residence. You saw the antlers, remembered the fanciful food at the dinner parties. It had felt as if fiery flames were stitching your every nerve together, igniting one horrid realization within you. Ironic, how one word will send your world aflame once more.

“See?” The remark crawls from your tongue, wrenching your lips open and sinking into the still air. You inhale sharply as you notice Hannibal’s eyes flash crimson. His posture is still and he almost appears frozen in place, save for the measured breaths entering his nose and exiting his lips. His unblinking, unflinching stare assaults you with horrible, cloying fear. The feeling paralyzes you, leaving your legs locked and your hands clenched in fists. Your heart is humming in your ears. You can’t hear what he says next, but it doesn’t matter. There is no mistaking the expression on his face, the wrath hidden behind that thin-pressed smile:

Hannibal knows.

next chapter

hannibal taglist: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer

#defectivevillain #male reader #x male reader #gn reader #x gn reader #hannibal nbc #hannibal x reader #hannibal x male reader #hannibal x gn reader #Hannibal Lecter x reader #Hannibal Lecter x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader

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willshipanything-blog · 2 years

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Rules of the Game- Chapter 4

Chapter 4 is done! Read below or check it out on AO3.

See Chapter Index here.

More detailed tags over on AO3 (heads up, smut is on its way very soon!)

Chapter 4: Pinky Promise

Your captor came down the next couple of mornings with the same meager meals of eggs and soda prepared for you. Again, you ate at his feet, with him leering over you. And again, you passed back the tray and tried to discern what he was thinking beneath that pallid mock grin. What message his eyes held in them. The click of the lock and the metal door groaning closed served as a melancholy reminder of another day of confinement. For the other 23 hours and 50 minutes every day, you were left alone with your thoughts.

If he was going to kill you, why hadn’t he already? What was he waiting for? Had he changed his mind? If so, what was he going to do instead?

You found, regrettably, you had far too much time on your hands to think of each repulsive outcome to these questions. Trying to expel these thoughts from your mind, you attempted to think of happy, or at least useful, ideas, but these made you even more distressed.

You thought of those closest to you. How would Jonathon be holding up? He’d have reported you missing by now- could you picture him on the news, pleading for any leads that could help you be found? Would your mother, a couple states over, have come to Denver? Would she be clutching a sepia photo of her little girl in front of the news cameras, wondering who might have taken her? Would your few friends help put up MISSING posters alongside those of the Grabber’s other victims? These questions made your already aching stomach even more twisted.

You decided to prioritize finding a way out of this prison, if only to keep your sanity. Think back to the options you’d already laid out. The window: you’d already fucked that up. Without a rope, you had dragged a carpet from the toilet over to the window. Used your already depleted strength to climb to the window latch. But it was out of reach behind the metal grate, a couple of taunting inches between you and an open window. The door: no good. So far, he had stood guarding the only exit. Even if you weren’t half starved, it would be nothing like a fair fight between you and your kidnapper if you tried to make an escape. The toilet: even worse. You were no stronger than when you first arrived here, and the porcelain lid was just too heavy. The phone: pitiful. How you ever thought you could make a half-decent weapon from it would have been laughable if your situation was not so tragically hopeless. You slammed the handset frustratingly onto its holder, but not before you thought you’d heard a momentary buzz of static. Picking it back up had proven this to be false. Great; three days in and you were already hearing things, Y/N. That part about keeping your sanity? Going about as well as all your other brilliant plans.

Judging by the paltry light that entered the basement, it seemed to be late afternoon on the day of your third feed. After a fruitless day of pacing, thinking and crying (all three in turn), fatigue overcame you and you welcomed the filthy mattress like an old friend. Nightmares of the Grabber flashed before you; his van roaring after you down a deserted street; the Grabber pinning you down in the basement and raping your naked, sobbing form; the same man standing over you holding an axe, swinging it sharply down into your skull…

You woke with a frantic scream from the images that had felt so vivid and real, and shook your head violently to bring yourself back into a (no less hellish) conscious state. Looking over to the window to try and determine what time it was, you discerned a black shadowy form crouched against the wall below it. He was sitting there, watching you silently. With your eyes slowly adjusting to the diminished light of your darkened cage, you began to realize he was wearing that maniacal grin, though the upper half of the mask was not attached. Those same blue eyes pierced you, framed by his ashy locks hanging limply on the side of his face. His ringed hands were clasped together, the mask’s pointed chin resting on them, as if in contemplation.

“Wh-what are you doing?” you ventured, scrabbling to cover your chest and legs as you scooted back on the mattress. You had your back to the wall, both in the literal sense and in the metaphorical one; you felt like a cornered animal about to be torn limb from limb by this predator.

“I was just watching,” replied the figure, scooping himself up and beginning to stalk slowly towards the foot of the mattress, keeping his gaze fixed on you. “I like watching you sleep”. He still carried the childish voice, but he sounded more sincere and vulnerable in this moment, like he hadn’t wanted to be caught in his voyeuristic endeavor. You noticed his blue, watery eyes, and the creases of his skin around them. The first hint of emotion you’d seen without his full devilish façade. Still, you were unable to ascertain what he might have been thinking.

An eon of silence seemed to pass, in which you found you could no longer hold his stare. You hadn’t begged for your life yet, but the more those deep blue orbs bored into you, the more terrified you found yourself becoming. You did not want to break. You turned your head to look at the empty corner of your cell to your right.

“It’s the first time you’ve caught me watching you, little dove.”

“So you’ve watched me before.” you huffed, still turned away from him, cheek brushing the cold wall. You ignored that creepy nickname he’d decided to bestow on you.

His footsteps edged unhurriedly around the mattress toward you, though you were steadfast in averting your eyes, even as he perched on the bed beside your thighs. He caught you unaware when he grasped both of your hands in his, gripping them both tightly whilst paradoxically stroking the back of your hands gently with his thumbs.

You yanked your hands back in protest, but of course his grip did not let up.

“Oh my, what’s this then?” his lilting voice asked, pinpointing your left ring finger and bringing it nearer his face. His question was not convincing; he had obviously spied the ring adorned there and was curious.

You were absolutely not engaged. Jonathan had bought you the trinket as a sort of promise ring after a year of dating. It was cheap enough; a small pink morganite gem set into a thin silver band. It had been the wrong size, however, forcing you to wear it on your ring finger. You had joked that this would stop creeps trying anything with you, the irony of which was not lost on you in the current moment.

The Grabber wanted an answer. You stumbled over your words in embarrassment, eyes still locked on the corner.

“It’s- it’s a promise ring. Fr- from my boyfriend.”

“Well, isn’t that just peachy keen?” He inched his face closer to yours, spitting his words into your cheek. “And what promise did he make you, Y/N?” His voice darkened to a low growl. “That you’d be together forever? That he would keep you safe and protect you?” His vice-like grip forced his nails painfully into your sweating palms. “People shouldn’t make promises they can’t keep.”

Your head swiveled round to confront him, facing him directly. From the perhaps three inches between your faces, you considered headbutting into his exposed forehead with all your (admittedly paltry) force. Your better judgment forced you to show restraint. Once again, like always, you weren't in any position to fight back. You'd have to wait for a better opportunity.

"You’re hurting me." You protested, attempting to wriggle your now numb fingers free from his.

"Oh no, sweet thing, you'll know when I'm hurting you. But I don't want that. How about you make me a promise?" Here he yanked roughly at the ring on your finger. You thought your knuckle might pop with the force he used. Having loosened the ring, he forced it onto his own left pinky.

“Huh. A little snug, but I think it suits me.” He swung his other muscled arm to grip your cheeks between his thumb and fingers, squashing your stubborn pout into a contorted expression. “So,” he continued, “how about a promise from you?” You stayed silent, not even daring to move your hands to pry his arm away.

“You can promise to keep being such a good girl for me. You can promise that, right dove?”

You stayed motionless at first. His hand clamped more tightly around your jaw, and you knew more bruises would form there, already picturing the purple fingerprints along your cheek. He wasn’t asking nicely. You reluctantly nodded with some difficulty due to the hand wrapped around your face. His temples wrinkled, a hidden smile under the mask showing his pleasure in this agreement. His glinting eyes bore that same look you’d seen before, the one he’d worn as he watched you sleep, watched you eat. You thought you could almost place it.

“Pinky promise then, Y/N.” He gripped his newly adorned digit in yours, curling himself around your delicate finger. He chuckled softly. He loosened his grip on your hand and face, letting a soft hum escape him as he regarded you closely. As he rose and turned on his heel to leave, you realized what that look in his eyes was. It was hunger. But hunger for what?

The Grabber exited swiftly, the door closing with the distinctive thud and click- but no, it hadn't clicked, had it?

Al had normally started this part of the game sooner, but he had found a sadistic comfort in watching her sleep so fretfully. Observing her whimper meekly, building unknowingly to moans. Those high-pitched whines she made in her restless dreamstate were euphoric. Writhing dreadfully, desperately before waking in a convulsion of screams. He wondered whether the origin of her terror was him, haunting her both in sleep and consciousness. To have her at his mercy day and night; absolutely exquisite. He had watched uninterrupted before tonight, first observing at a distance before inching towards her, reaching out a hand to her face before retreating it in self-restraint. Let’s try to follow the rules.

He felt a thrill when she’d woken in a tangle of panic and sweat. Finding him watching silently. Knowing she was vulnerable to his watchful gaze, but having no power to stop it. He didn’t need to see her blush through the darkness to see how she tried to turn herself away coyly, attempting to hide from the masked spectator of her exhibition. Tugging down her corduroy skirt that had bunched near her midriff, all too late of course. Al admitted it, he had slowed the progression of the game for his own depraved reasons.

She had tried to hold his gaze, trying to convince him (and herself, he supposed) that she wasn't scared. She was not very persuasive.

It’s time, he thought, after he had gripped her hands in his and had made her promise to be good. A promise he knew she had no hope of keeping. He relished this part of naughty boy- or naughty girl as it would be tonight. They always come upstairs- desperate, with still that bit of hope that they might manage to escape, might somehow make it out of the game alive.

Al had swapped out his grinning mask for a new façade after leaving the basement. The devil horns made a reappearance, but accompanied by a lower half bearing a deep downwards frown. He removed his shirt and belt, wrapping the latter in his right hand as he took a seat across from the basement entrance. He breathed deeply in his stomach and clenched his fists, feeling the stiff leather in one hand, and his new ring on the other. This made naughty girl even more satisfying- if she were to misbehave, it would be her own fault. She would be the one who had broken a promise. He would feel no guilt or remorse for the consequences of HER actions. He’d once more have that pretty flesh bruised and wounded for his pleasure.

Al still hadn’t decided whether he would beat Y/N to death that night, or savor it a couple nights more. It would depend on how much his rage overcame him. All he could do now was wait in splendid anticipation for his doomed little dove.

#the black phone #black phone #albert shaw #albert shaw x reader #the grabber #the grabber x reader #first fic #new fic #slasher fandom

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totallyexhausted · 1 year

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Part of You’re So Cool (Yeah, You Are)

...

A month after they’d moved in, Miyano had suggested a 4-day trip to the coast to celebrate the end of his first term in university. A small vacation since they’d both been stressed, both dealing with the strain of exams, late-night studying, and their hectic schedules they could never seem to sync-up despite living together. It had been a nice idea considering neither one of them had ever been to the beach; and relaxing in the water, discussing the types of BL fantasies Miyano could come up with while lying in the sand together, their fingers intertwined, sounded nice.

The problem was, Sasaki got motion sickness easily, and meds didn’t always help. The train ride to and from university (like in high school), he could usually handle; but taking one that lasted several hours, was torture. He didn’t remember much about the ride except he tried sleeping through most of it; his head leaning against his boyfriend’s shoulder, his fingers intertwined tightly with Miyano’s, and Miyano running his thumb over the outside of his hand in order to offer a small comfort as Sasaki tried keeping down the constant wave of nausea through passing countryside. For the most part, he did well- only vomiting the second he stumbled from the train, and the constant dull ache of sickness pitted in his stomach a few hours after. The ride back had been a completely different story though.

Despite the meds Sasaki had crammed down his throat before the train left the station; a majority of the scenery passed by in a nauseating blur of apologies, and Miyano’s soft touches grounding him in the hellish reality he was trying so hard to black out. Five hours. Five hours pitted against a cool glass window of greens, blues and tans; five hours where every 10 minutes, Sasaki was trying to puke up his stomach lining; five hours with no relief, no form of exhaustion strong enough to rip him from the motion of the giant steam engine powering down unfamiliar tracks. By the time they’d reached their apartment, Sasaki was nothing more than a towering mess of apologies and fatigue. Honestly, it broke Miyano’s heart, and made Sasaki feel weak and lame.

They had barely made it over the threshold before Sasaki collapsed, and Miyano could no longer support his boyfriend’s weight. Despite Miyano standing at a comfortable 5’9, Sasaki was taller, bigger than he was; that made it harder for the younger to help the way he wanted- to care for him the way Sasaki could for him. Needless to say, they’d spent the next few hours sitting in the cramped hallway; Sasaki leaning against Miyano, nodding off between quiet conversations and desperate attempts to stretch his lanky form against a confined space.

...

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primitiveside · 7 months

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INTIMIDATION AND VIOLENT RP PROMPTS @priceforeverything sent shoot from nikolai.

Riddick lopes through the traps set along a corridor — the kind he's been evading this whole test, cleverly placed inside the facility that he's fleeing. His fellow batch of subjects, not so cautious with their lives as he, had gotten to experience the threshold of pain in bear traps and explosive mines. And when they weren't preoccupied with prying metal teeth out of their ankles, they were being overrun by bioweapons. Strategically placed ones.

The lobby door bursts open, his boot coming down with a thud. With one greedy inhale of air, he knows that he made it. He's outside.

The future reshapes itself in his mind.

He sprints into the night, over the paved walkway, hard breaths in the late August air. Nearly realized freedom is a sweet high until a hellish hornet sting knocks one of his shoulders off-kilter.

He glances back. A syringe as long as his hand erected from behind him, the glass chamber emptying out the rest of the contents. Nice shot. He keeps running, wrapping his fingers around the dart. Before he could remove it, another spears him not an inch below the first one. Now, that's just not very friendly.

Heat and fatigue flood through his arm. That's not good. Holding the tranquilized limb like a brace with his other arm, he makes it to where the grass meets the pavement when the world goes woozy. Still, Riddick presses on.

#priceforeverything. 「 nikolai 」#priceforeverything #until the lights burn out? until you can't see what's eating you? 「 resident evil verse 」#riddick internal monologue: fuck this guy in particular

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frodothefair · 7 months

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I actually feel fully good today for once.

(Personal beneath the cut)

In January I went through something hellish and have not been fully well since.

It was a bad drug reaction, but by the time we figured out that that’s what it was and I started trying to come off of the medication, I started getting withdrawals. Withdrawals I have still, even as I go down by a fraction of a milligram every few weeks.

I can’t comfortably be on it, and I can’t comfortably be off of it. The only way out is through, but very slowly, and it may take years.

Now, I am much better than I was, but most days I still don’t feel completely well: at least for a part of each day, I will either have heightened emotions that make no sense given the circumstances I am I in (this is called neuroemotion), or I will be physically uncomfortable in some way. I still don’t have a great handle on when waves of symptoms will come or when they will end, or what actually influences them. Really good self care or a good night’s sleep is no longer a guarantee of anything. The symptoms no longer keep me from doing most things, but they weigh me down, and I mourn for the me of 2022 whose biggest problem was fatigue from overwork and having stayed up too late the night before.

And all this I got from something that was made to help me.

Oftentimes, I can’t help but think, “Valar, I am so tired of feeling this way.”

But it has also given me a newfound appreciation of when I do feel good.

(Thank you for reading if you got this far. Now does it make sense why I stan Frodo?)

#disability #chronic illness

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zennialemo · 1 year

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I posted 2,065 times in 2022

That's 976 more posts than 2021!

45 posts created (2%)

2,020 posts reblogged (98%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@killerandhealerqueen

@w00dchips

@evil-moonlight

@scallioncreamcheesebagel

@desultory-suggestions

I tagged 868 of my posts in 2022

#lmao - 41 posts

#beyond evil - 36 posts

#queer - 16 posts

#under the skin - 15 posts

#kpop - 14 posts

#aromantic - 12 posts

#asexual - 12 posts

#bts - 12 posts

#bad buddy - 10 posts

#spotify - 9 posts

Longest Tag: 114 characters

#but this is interesting to me because ive been seeing lots of heavy black and white discourse on concrit lately...

My Top Posts in 2022:

I opened up a soulmate AU that I started in April for Under the Skin. It was in the same folder as the one I recently posted. Its been two days of reading it and rereading it and wishing it had an end. And now I want to finish it. But it's like insanely large in terms of plot. It's a Soulmate AU with political corruption and murder and secrets. Shits not fluffy... well not for the most part. And im overwhelmed by the scale of it. It needs dedication and time and maybe even an overhaul...

But I love it 🥲. So let's see if I can finish it. If not, whatever (she says, not feeling 'whatever' about it at all). Maybe I can break it up into a series if it's really too much...

10 notes - Posted December 4, 2022

My whole therapized life has been a back and forth of "do they don't they" over whether or not I have BPD or bipolar II.

And I have always been like "nah I don't get manic". Mind you I wasn't thinking hypomanic, I was thinking my aunt when she goes off her meds and thinks she can fly and that people are following her. So I was like "never, never" about mania. But I wasn't considering the times when I write 10,000 words in 24 hours with no sleep and then hyperfixate on plot for the next 5 days, or when I do 1 million tasks in 4 days on 4 hours of sleep and almost no food. I thought those were just good times. That's not to mention the spending. Dear lord the spending. But I never felt... like I could fly. I just felt like I was hot shit. So. I always was like yeah not me *shrug*.

All this said, I definitely *do* fit the criteria of "high functioning" or "quiet" BPD, too. My mood in one day is the picture of instability. I have no sense of self. I fear abandonment, etc. I don't look stereotypical BPD because I internalize everything. I rarely snap or take my feelings out on people, when I split I take it out on myself. Etc. So. "Quiet" BPD fits.

But so does Bipolar II with rapid cycling. I just dropped so bad for 2 weeks I ended up in the ER and then swung up so high I spent more than I should have on clothes and gifts and cards for others, slept very little, and packed an insane amount for my upcoming move despite my disability screaming at me with pain and exhaustion to slow down. I am now starting a mood stabilizer and my mental health team is thinking maybe a dual diagnosis of BPD and Bipolar II. I laughed because all these years of back and forth from my healthcare providers for the current team to look at one another and say "how about both?"

How about both, indeed.

The (constant, but now extra pressing) problem is I have ME, or more colloquially CFS (Chronic Fatigue Syndrome), and hypomanic energy and lack of sleep for 4.5 days = super awful hellish PEM. Think of PEM like crashing into a ditch where you can barely leave bed, maybe like me you're in pain and light sensitive and it feels like you've got Mono all over again... anyway. Its really awful. Terrible. Im so drained I can barely talk. Thank the moon and stars I don't have therapy today.

But yall, I'm suffering. PEM so bad my legs are trembling. Time to lay in bed for the next three days and try to rest up... 🥲

11 notes - Posted June 15, 2022

Rewatching Bad Buddy with my sister, who's seeing it for the first time. I'm in my feels y'all. This show was everything. Wholesome and full of feelings and real communication in the face of adversity. My queer heart is full 🥺.

15 notes - Posted September 10, 2022

16 notes - Posted March 29, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

I just watched the first episode of Koisenu Futari, and I’m crying. I’m asexual, and I think I might be somewhere on the aromantic scale too and I had no idea until I watched this and things just.. clicked. I went through and am still living through an extremely painful and difficult breakup where “everything was right” on paper, but I just couldn’t meet him where he was at. And the sentence always ended there but the truth of the matter is, I just couldn’t meet him where he was at...romantically. I never could. It killed me. Kills me. There are other things too, other things about me I’ve been noticing recently and this revelation is like breathing air for the first time in months - maybe there’s nothing wrong with me. This show made me feel so seen. Seen in ways I didn’t even know I needed to be. And even if it hadn’t made me realize I’m probably arospec, I think it still would have touched me just as much as an ace person, but also just on a humanity level it’s beautiful. I call myself a writer but right now the words kind of escape me. I just feel so validated and seen, and it hurts and it’s wonderful all at the same time.

17 notes - Posted February 19, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #Spotify

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somekndofnature · 2 years

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Continuing to upload my older Doctor Who stories. Another of my favorite chapters. This is a really intimate scene without it becoming NSFW. It is one of my favorite Doctor/ Rose interactions that I’ve ever written. Also, if you have any tips or anything for how I can better mark these, I would appreciate any advice. If you would like a tag when I upload a new chapter let me know.

This story follows Rose Tyler and her unexpected return to the TARDIS during the year that never was. It has been a long separation for Earth's defender and she is not the same girl she once was. She is having a difficult time coming to terms with some major changes to her physiology, as well as battling her personal demons, while hiding from the Master. Against all odds, Rose needs to find her Doctor and reverse this hellish year before it is too late.

Prologue| Chp1| Chp2| Chp3| Chp4| Chp5| Chp6| Chp7| Chp8| Chp9| Chp10| Chp11| Chp12| Chp13| Chp14

Chapter 15: Would I Have Ever Found a Reason

AO3

Rose was pulled from sleep, kicking and screaming, by a strange noise.

Hummmm, hummm, click, click. Hummmm, click, click, click.

Her sleep addled mind floundered, irritation rising to the forefront in place of rational thought. The noise came again. Jack…Rose stifled a growl. They had one rule, just one: don’t use loud as fuck tools while she was sleeping. Whatever he was using, she could feel the vibration of it in her brain. It rattled her teeth and sinuses with an annoying tickle. Rose wanted to move, to pull her pillow over her head and fall into oblivion once more but her arms ached at the slightest twitch of the muscles.

Hummmm, hummm, click, click. Hummmmm, click.

Argh! Rose needed something to throw at his head but that would require getting out of bed. That wasn’t happening. She was so tired and her body felt leaden with fatigue. She just wanted to sleep. It wasn’t as if she were asking for the fucking moon here.

“What?” Rose heard someone whisper in disbelief.

That wasn’t Jack’s voice… that was… In a rush, the events of the day flooded Rose’s mind. What happened? Last thing she remembered was kneeling across from the Doctor, her hands on the Master’s chest, desperate to heal him, and then…nothing. She must have passed out.

Her eyelids fluttered open and blurry shapes resolved into solid familiar forms. Rose was well acquainted with this room, the TARDIS’ med bay. She had spent too frequent a time within its deceptively soothing walls. The lights were turned down low, casting a comforting green glow against the golden coral. Rose’s mind still felt detached, floating in a lulling fog. She was so warm, cocooned in pleasant lethargy by layers of blankets. Rose’s lids drooped and she almost surrendered to the Sandman once again.

Hummmm, click, click, click.

Her eyes popped open, landing on the beloved shape sat on the stool at her bedside. Doctor. Theta. She smiled, finding in his presence the energy to remain conscious. They were home, together...finally. God she missed him so much. Every minute of these last twelve years Rose felt his absence like an ache in the center of her chest. Seeing the Doctor again after all this time felt surreal. After all that had passed between them, here they sat, together in the infirmary like they had a hundred times before. It felt like a dream, like he was almost too perfect to be real.

Hummm, hummm, hummm.

Bloody hell, what was that sound? It was interrupting her ogling and really starting to irritate her. Rose refocused on her Time Lord, trying to put it from her mind. She rarely had the chance to observe him unknown and wanted to take stock of every detail. The Doctor’s hair was a disheveled chestnut mess but, then again, when wasn’t it? He had habit of running his hands through it when he was stressed. A cruel tick to keep all to himself, especially when her fingers were more than willing to take over the task. His brow was furrowed in concentration, glasses perched on his nose, and a pout fixed on his lips as he tapped furiously at the monitor.

Rose blinked her sleep heavy eyes and almost sighed. Did he even know how sexy he was in those glasses?

The humming sound came to an abrupt end and her annoyance vanished. The Doctor dropped his head, a small smile playing on his lips before he turned and looked her right in the eye.

Rose’s eyes went wide. Had he heard her?

He chuckled and tucked the glasses into his pocket. “I only hear the really loud ones, don’t worry.”

“Well, that’s not gonna be awkward,” she replied, voice rough from a dry throat.

“Hang on.” The Doctor jumped to his feet and made his way to the small sink at the back of the infirmary. Returning, he held a proffered glass of water.

“Thank you.” Rose downed it in greedy gulps.

“Slow down,” he warned, his warm eyes flicking over her face. “Don’t want you to be sick.”

Rose set the glass down on the bedside table and met his curious gentle gaze. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, unsure what to say in this moment. So much had happened in such a short amount of time. Where did they start?

“How are you feeling?” the Doctor asked.

That was as good a place as any she supposed. Rose grimaced. “Like I have the flu. I’m achy and exhausted and there was this buzzing sound that was really irritating but it’s gone now. My head just aches a bit.”

“Buzzing?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “I thought it was Jack. Our living quarters were pretty close and he drove me crazy with all of his noise. I thought he was using a power tool in the console room. It was like a vibration almost.”

“Ah.” The Doctor looked down, rubbing at the back of his neck. “That was probably me. You were picking up on my emotions. I was frustrated. I’m sorry.”

“That was you?”

“Yes.” He huffed, rubbing at his tired eyes with one hand. “I’m not used to having someone in my head, anymore. Its…well, its an adjustment.”

“Oh.” Rose looked down at her hands, flushing with self-consciousness. It annoyed her. Why did she suddenly feel like a nineteen-year-old girl again? Simple and small and insecure in her abilities. She was a strong confident grown woman, for love of god.

“Hey.” The Doctor scooped up her hand and twined their fingers together. “I’m not cross. It’s just a bit…” He blew out a breath. “Overwhelming.”

“Oh,” she replied a little breathless. Argh! Could she sound more like a daft lovesick child? She wasn’t a teenager! Rose cleared her throat. “So, why are you frustrated?”

The Doctor gave an angry sigh. “The TARDIS is being stingy with information. I was looking through your scans, comparing them to previous ones and trying to pinpoint any changes. Especially, when you might have developed any kind of telepathy. I didn’t find much.”

“Oh.” She gazed at their hands, weaving and unweaving their fingers. “Well, she’s probably still recovering. She doesn’t mean to hide things. She just needs a little bit of time to...organize her thoughts.” Rose glanced at him, a pointed look in her eyes that made it clear they were no longer talking about just the TARDIS.

He studied her for a long moment and took a deep breath. “I suppose I can give her that,” the Doctor replied, placing a soft kiss to the back of her hand, well clear of the IV taped there.

Rose suppressed a shiver. “I’m sure she appreciates it.”

“You’ve been through a fair bit of trauma today,” he reasoned, dropping the pretense. “I guess time isn’t too much to ask for, especially given how tired you are.”

“Reading thoughts again? That’s not very polite, Doctor.”

“It doesn’t take a mind reader to see that you’re struggling to keep your eyes open. It makes me think that I should have given you a sedative. You need some rest.”

“You look pretty tired yourself. How long has it been since you had a full night’s sleep? Well, a full night for you anyway.”

“Its been a while.” The Doctor’s vague reply was a deliberate dodge but Rose arched a brow, refusing to let it go, and at last he sighed. “A full night’s sleep? It’s been about…two years.”

She looked down, blushing and understanding the implications. Toward the end of their time together, they had adopted a habit of sleeping in the same bed. It had started off simple enough, just some easy comfort between friends after a nightmare. What it developed into made their relationship lines even more blurry. Sleeping on top of the covers with a friend, holding her hand to keep the bad dreams at bay was platonic enough. You could still consider yourselves 'just mates.' But what do you call it when you wake up half-dressed under the warm covers, limbs tangled together and lips pressed against warm skin? Rose had never asked and the Doctor had never volunteered an explanation but it made for some of the best sleep of her life.

“That’s a long time to go without something so…vital,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Yes. It is.” Their gaze locked for long moments before he cleared his throat and glanced away. “Are you sure that you don’t want a little more sleep?”

“I’m fine. I’d rather talk to you,” Rose responded.

“Okay, what’s on your mind?”

“How does this work?” she asked, gesturing between them. “I mean, can everyone hear my thoughts? Because that sounds like my worst nightmare.”

The Doctor chuckled, shaking his head. “No, just me and, like I said, only the really loud ones.”

“Oh well, I will try to think quietly then,” Rose replied.

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Well, uncomfortable for her. Theta seemed perfectly content to just look at her.

His eyes travelled over her features as if committing them to memory. “You’re awfully quiet for someone who would rather talk than sleep. Is something bothering you?”

Rose bit her lip and the Doctor raised a questioning brow. “The Master,” she started. “He said that I was projecting everything.”

“You probably were,” he agreed. “You don’t have psychic barriers in place and that can make you easy to read. We’re touch telepaths though, so, without a connection like ours, the Master couldn’t have known your thoughts...not unless he was touching you and, even then, it’s very unlikely. It takes a rather intimate, deliberate connection to do that. It would require dropping his psychic defenses; which the Master would never have done. But he wouldn’t need to know your thoughts to interpret what you’re feeling. He was probably reading your emotions. No offense to you, but you’re kind of shouting them at everyone. The Master was always very good at that. It made him a skilled manipulator.”

She shifted under her blankets unable to look him in the eye. “You keep using the past tense. Is he... Did I?” Rose didn’t know how to ask the question and, despite how gentle he was being with her, she was still afraid to.

The Doctor swallowed, a frown tugging at his lips. “I am once again the last of the Time Lords. He-he’s gone.”

Ice shivered down her spine and her mouth went dry. Rose broke into tears, pulling her hand from his to cover her face. “Oh god. Doctor, I’m so sorry. I tried; I swear I tried.” While logically she understood that he couldn’t hold her responsible for his death by any stretch of the imagination, there was still a small voice in her head that shouted: Please don’t hate me! Please don’t leave me!

“What?” he exclaimed, face going ashen. “No, no, no, no. Oh Rose.”

The Doctor pulled back her covers and hopped into the small bed with her. Dodging her IV tube and other wires, he pulled her onto his lap. Rose resisted at first but he cuddled her closer, placing a soft kiss to her forehead. She gave in, curling her fingers into his shirt and weeping until her chest ached. It wasn’t fair. Rose had worked so hard. She had ripped herself apart and, after all of that, she had failed him. She felt ashamed and angry with herself...with her weakness. If she had just given a little bit more.

“Oh no, Rose. Don’t think like that. Please. Just relax.”

His comfort was useless against Rose’s guilt. She felt like she had stolen something from him. The Doctor missed his home and people with such ferocity. Yet, when the time came for her to relieve a modicum of that pain for him, she hadn’t been strong enough. Helplessness swallowed her, dragging her further into the chaotic storm of her mind.

Rose was ready to drown in it, to wallow in her onus but, ever so slowly, her mental waters grew quiet. Her brow furrowed in confusion as genuine affection, admiration, and absolution filtered into her mind. These emotions were different, foreign but familiar. They passed from the Doctor’s mind into hers, infusing her with warmth and quieting her self-condemnation. After several moments, Rose drifted in a calm serenity that made her muscles unwind.

“What’re you doing?” she mumbled.

“Nothing,” the Doctor replied, sifting his fingers through the silken length of her hair.

“Yes you are,” she slurred, pleasant tingles working their way through her body. “I can feel you. You feel good.”

“I’m just trying to comfort you,” he replied, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“Yes,” she sniffled. “Especially when I don’t deserve it. M’so sorry, Doctor.”

He lifted her chin with a finger, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Rose you have nothing to be sorry for. I know how hard you tried…how hard I pushed you.” He brushed his fingers across her cheek. “I can’t believe I almost-“ He growled, shaking his head, his mouth drawn into a distressed frown.

“Hey,” Rose cooed, cupping his jaw. “Its okay. I’m okay. I’m just sorry that I couldn’t…”

The Doctor leaned down, rubbing the tip of his nose against hers. “You did everything you could. You tried to save a being who had only ever hurt you and you did it for me. How could I possibly hate you for that?”

“I just…you were so upset and-“ God, Rose hated how pathetic she sounded but she just couldn’t help it. In truth, all she wanted was to have him hold her, accept her…love her. And maybe the Master was right, maybe that made her weak, maybe it made Rose pitiful but what could she say? Twelve years apart had only deepened her need for the Doctor. And yes, she knew that she was strong, she knew that she could survive without him but…she just didn’t want to anymore. Rose wanted to do more than survive.

“Shhh.” The Doctor pulled back and brushed her hair behind her ear. “Rose Tyler there are very few things that you could do that would make me hate you. Most of them would require you becoming a completely different person. No, I don’t hate you and I will never leave you. I don’t think I could. The TARDIS is your home. You belong here.” With me.

It was unspoken but heard by both. Rose’s heart stuttered under the Doctor’s tender gaze. He was so close that she could feel his cool breaths against her cheek. If she lifted her head just an inch, she could press her lips against his. He stroked his thumb along her jaw, eyes dark and intent on her. A shiver rolled down Rose’s spine and settled in her belly like glowing ember. Her eyes slipped closed, a quiet moan escaping her lips, until she heard Theta blow out a shaky breath and her lashes lifted.

“This is going to be difficult,” he spoke breathlessly.

Rose could feel his hearts going wild beneath her palm. “What?”

The Doctor leaned down to press his forehead to hers and she went boneless, melting against him as their connection pulsed, shining like a solar flare in her mind. “Do you know what this is between us, Rose?”

“A little.” She licked her lips, shifting in his lap.

Theta groaned.

Rose froze, looking up into his smoldering eyes. “Sorry.”

His fingers twined into her hair as he tilted her head back and whispered against her lips, “Don’t be.”

“Doc!” Jack’s voice jolted them apart as he turned in through the infirmary door and came to an abrupt halt, staring at them with wide eyes. “Oh, sorry. Am I interrupting something?”

Rose almost growled out her frustration. YES! GET OUT!

The Doctor burst into laughter and kissed her on the forehead. “It’s fine, Jack. Come in.”

She looked up at him in disbelief. WHAT?!

He smiled and shook his head. “You need to have quieter thoughts.” The Theta lowered his voice to a whisper. “And as much as I do not want to share you right now Rose Tyler...” He paused brushing some hair away from her face. “Jack needs to see you, too. He was very worried.”

Rose’s heart softened and she shook the sexual frustration from her mind. Jack was her friend. Of course he would worry over her and now, he was part of the only real family she had. She couldn’t treat him like he was a burden. Bearing that in mind, Rose pasted a gentle smile on her face and turned toward Jack but, when the Doctor moved to slip out of the cot, her attention was diverted. Rose clung to him with a whimpered protest.

The Doctor squeezed her hand. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to grab you another glass of water.”

She was reluctant to release him but relented and let him slide off the bed. He went to the tap and Jack approached her side with a wince, mouthing ‘sorry.’ Rose rolled her eyes and waved him off, settling back against the pillow alone.

“How are you feeling, Rosie?”

“I’m fine, a little tired and weak, a bit of a headache, but otherwise fine. What about you? You look exhausted,” she fretted, reaching out to grab his hand.

Jack gave it a gentle squeeze and rubbed at his eyes. “Yeah I’m beat. I just stopped in to check on you before I went to bed. It’s good to see you’re awake.”

The Doctor returned and placed her glass of water on the table before resuming his seat on the stool at her bedside. Rose frowned and he avoided her probing gaze. When it became clear that he wouldn’t acknowledge her, she turned back to Jack, willing her eyes to stop burning.

She cleared her throat. “Where are Martha, Tish? Their parents?”

“They’ve settled into a couple rooms here,” Jack replied his now concerned gaze flitting between the Time Lord and his companion. “They’re safe and sound. Nothing to worry about.”

“Okay.”

Silence reigned for several awkward moments before Jack clapped his hands. “Well, like I said, I’m gonna hit the hay. You two just go back to whatever you were doing. Pretend I was never here.” He stepped forward and kissed Rose on the forehead. “Love you, kiddo.”

She smiled. “Love you.”

“See ya Doc,” he barked as he sauntered out of the room.

The Doctor waved and an oppressive quiet settled through the room. The space that only moments ago felt warm and safe now turned cold and clinical. Rose twisted her fingers into knots and struggled to keep her mind clear. She didn’t want to project how empty she suddenly felt or the fact that her lips still tingled from the ghost of his touch. When she was certain that she had her emotions under control, Rose looked up to find the Doctor’s intent gaze.

“What now?” she asked in a small voice.

He sighed and ran a single hand over his face. “Well, you could probably use several more hours of sleep and I need to get started on some…oh, let’s call it research.”

“Oh.” Rose wanted to curse him for being so goddamned self-contained. “Research?”

“Yeah, I’ll just need to take a few blood samples and run some tests.”

She stiffened and narrowed her eyes on him. “You mean experiments. You want to experiment on me. You’re trying to find out what I am now.”

“No, Rose. Of course not, you’re not a lab rat but…” He rubbed at his brow. “This isn’t normal. You shouldn’t be able to do the things you did today.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that Doctor,” she snipped. “I know that I’m not ‘normal’. I’m sorry if that disappoints you.”

“It doesn’t disappoint me, Rose. It worries me,” he explained and stood, beginning to pace at the foot of her bed. “The Bad Wolf, it-“

“I’m the Bad Wolf. We’re one and the same.”

“I know! That’s the problem. You have the power of the Vortex coursing through your head. What if you can’t control it one day and in burns your mind right out of your skull?!”

“Doctor, I understand that it’s scary but-“

“No, Rose you don’t understand…this power in you it’s wrong! This is wrong! You’re not supposed to be like this!”

His words found sharp purchase in Rose’s heart. She was wrong? It pricked at her insecurities. For twelve years, she felt unable to relate to her fellow humans in Pete’s World. She felt separate, alien, and the last thing Rose expected was to hear those same fears flung back at her from the man she most loved.

Rose glared at the Doctor. “Wrong?! You know some might say it’s wrong for a person to change their entire face and body, but you do it. You regenerate.”

“That’s different. I’m not human, I’m a Time Lord.”

“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, Doctor, I’m not exactly human these days either!” Rose shouted, throwing the blankets off. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, ripping out the IV and other sensors. Blood pored from the puncture wound and the monitor began screaming warnings that drove like an ice pick into her temple. Rose covered the IV stick, pressing to staunch the flow of red liquid down her arm.

The Doctor stopped her progress by rushing to Rose’s side and placing his hands on either side of her hips, trapping her on the bed. “That’s exactly what I mean, Rose. Please, if you would just let me run a few tests.”

Rose had some background with being tested on. She ran her own team at Torchwood for two years when Pete decided to retire as Director. Naturally, she took the job…not because of nepotism (despite some senior officer opinions). Rose had worked her butt off and she had a forward-facing vision for the flawed organization. She had known its failings from the inside and had productive ideas that would make them more efficient. She had deserved the Director position but four years into it, malcontents began to whisper about her mysterious origins, her uncanny ability to never age.

When the rumbles of mutiny grew louder, the Board of Directors took it upon themselves to pull her sealed medical records, seemingly over her doctor’s dead body. Her lab work was only cause for further investigation. The powers that be decided Rose would better serve her country by providing a gateway for scientific progress, the key to defeating life’s greatest enemy…death. Who wouldn’t want to live forever, heal faster?

The irony had not been lost on Rose that the ability to evade death was ruining her life. She had been blacklisted, running for her very existence and, Daniel Rourke, acting Director and ringleader malcontent, had made it his personal mission to bring her in. In the end, Rose had decided to end things on her terms.

She gave herself up. Rourke took her from her family and everyone she loved. He spent months trying to torture the secrets of her youth from her lips before he had finally realized that she had nothing to offer him. That was when he turned her over to the doctors. For two years Rose had been poked, prodded, x-rayed, biopsied, and a variety of other tests that she didn’t want to think about. Needless to say, she was a little tetchy about being “tested” as the Doctor put it.

“No! I’m not one of your little experiments, Doctor! I’m a person!”

“Rose-“

“Is this what we are to you?” she continued, wincing against the monitor’s beeps that blared through her mind like a bullhorn. “Are we experiments? Are we tools? Toys? Accessories? Do you just pick us up and throw us away like an old hat, or scarf, or piece of produce?”

“No, of course not,” he replied, insulted, but Rose was beyond listening.

“And when we cease to be useful or entertaining you just leave us in Norway or Aberdeen or on a space station 200,000 years into our future and then it’s off to the next companion? I mean, do we mean anything to you? Do I mean anything to you?

“Yes, of course you do.” He tried to cup her cheek but she jerked from his touch.

“No Doctor, I don’t want to hear it again. Not you, Rose. Never you,” she imitated his voice back at him. “Is that the same thing you said to Sarah Jane, or Jack? Have you said it to Martha yet?” The Doctor looked as if she’d just slapped him but Rose didn’t care. She knew her words were hurtful and rash and she would regret them but the memories of her torture were a fresh bleeding wound. She was exhausted, drained, and her head felt like it might explode at any moment. Rose struck out at him with her words like a cornered wounded animal. “How long did you wait after I was gone to pick up Martha? A day? A week? Did you mourn me at all or did you simply move on to the next young girl out there?”

“Enough!” he snapped. Cupping her chin in his hand, the Doctor forced her to meet his tormented gaze. “Mourn you?! Rose Tyler, I mourned you every second of every day you were gone! I was still mourning you when you found me on that ship and, if you hadn’t showed up then, I would have mourned you every day for the rest of my very long life!”

Rose stared at him, stunned speechless. She was being irrational; she knew that. Some part of her mind was whispering that sheer exhaustion and hormones were ruling her right now but an even bigger part was screaming that everything hurt too much, even his beautiful sentiments. For that’s all they could be…sentiments…right?

The Doctor tried to put his arms around her but Rose pushed him away. It was a frail gesture, considering her feeble strength, but he stepped back, allowing her space. Theta looked crushed but Rose needed some barriers; if he gathered her in his arms she might just fracture into a million shattered pieces.

“I can’t think about this, Doctor. I’m done talking. I am so tired. I just want to go to my room, have a bath and go to bed.” She hopped from the cot, but Rose’s legs refused to support her and she crashed to the floor in a heap.

“Rose!” The Doctor rushed to her side, trying to gather her in his arms.

She wasn’t having any of it and batted his hands away. “I can do it myself. I’m fine,” she snapped, pulling herself to her feet once more.

She took about two steps before she collapsed again. Only this time, it was into the Doctor’s waiting arms. He cradled her against his cool chest where Rose could feel the strong steadying rhythm of his dual heartbeats. It calmed her, though not by much, and she still put up a feeble fight.

“Rose Marion Tyler,” he chastised. “Do you always have to be so damned stubborn?”

“Just put me down, Doctor. Please, put me down,” she begged, pushing against his chest with weak arms.

“Why? So you can fall flat on your face again? Listen to me Rose...” The Doctor held her still, determined for her to listen. “I’m not letting you go.”

Rose couldn’t hold them back anymore; she burst into tears. There was such blazing sincerity in the Doctor’s eyes. Rose was compelled to believe him and now, all she could do was sob into his shirt. He was giving her the words she needed to hear and Rose thought that maybe…just maybe, they weren’t pretty sentiments. Rational thought broke through her exhausted haze. Why was she fighting him? Oh god, the things she said to him…had she hurt him? She thought back to the Doctor’s expression when she’d spat his words about ‘Never her’ back in his face. Oh god, she had.

She was crying in earnest, blubbering incoherent apologies through her sobs. The Doctor shushed her, whispering sweet comforts of forgiveness but Rose was beyond hearing. Exhaustion and pain dogged her, sapping any strength from her muscles. A dark haze settled over her thoughts, her mind fighting the fog of fatigue. After several minutes, unable to fight any longer, Rose succumbed, surrendering to the pull of sleep, safe in the Doctor’s arms.

#doctor who #the doctor #rose tyler #jack harkness #tenrose #tenxrose #i really do love them so #so many things i like in this chapter #rose needs a hug #the other side of the night #chp15

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driedmoths · 3 months

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not too long but i don't think i'll continue it so i decided to throw it on here! ! warning ! for family death and spoilers for futaba sakura's palace in persona 5!

oh and i also decided she/it futaba was real ARGUE WITH THE WALL!!!🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

It doesn’t matter how much time passes — the pain of losing a loved one never fades. It remains in your peripheral vision, lurking in the darkest corners of your mind, waiting for that first guaranteed slip up.

A lump in your throat that’s too difficult to swallow, or a stabbing ache in your chest that gets worse with every breath; it doesn’t matter what form it takes, but there’s always some sort of sign before it really hits, like a breath held in anticipation. When it does hit, however, it strikes without mercy.

Futaba had been in some sort of funk lately, her mind always somewhere else, and even its usual passions failed to really engage her. It was frustrating to say the least, and when it wasn’t spacing out fully, she was restlessly trying to find something to capture its interest.

Unfortunately, it looked like she didn’t have to go looking very far today.

Something about today had already made it clear it’d started off on the wrong foot, and it only got worse as Futaba navigated her way through the next few hours. From being overly snippy with Sojiro, to feeling generally fatigued with no clear reason, she could feel itself becoming overwhelmed and overstimulated with each little thing, like some hellish excuse of a snowball rolling down a hill.

Then, of course, came the unevenly placed ace that brought the whole house of cards down — a simple reminder, an old rock song Wakaba had listened to with Futaba from what she could remember in a tangle of blocked out memories.

#writing drabbles #futaba sakura #persona 5

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myjourneythroughhell · 4 months

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And So It Begins

Welcome to my Journey Through Hell, or what I'd call my journey to try and get more healthy and G0D-Forbid loose some weight. Plus maybe blogging again will help with my anxiety. Ive somewhat given up in all honesty.

It is now December 23rd 2023, Mummers-Eve, and I am sitting at my clear glass dinning room table drinking a Nespresso coffee listening to music trying to think on how I will ever become more energetic. Lately I feel as if I have become more and more anti-energetic for lack of a correct term; fatigue central. I guess I will start taking Vitamin D and Omega 3 complexes again. Oh joy pills - my favourite. *facial twitch* and the cold months are upon us *Facial twitch*... so needless to say I am not outside walking my usual 3-5km a day. I don't know everything just feels kind of sh*t honestly.

A little bit about myself. I am a 34 year old gay guy from Canada (and no we don't live in igloos and most of Canada does NOT speak French) Im tall and I only like pictures of myself that I myself take (because I know how I can make myself look good or cute if I say so myself). I live with my older boyfriend of nearly 14 years (if not already 14 years) and my beautiful precious two cats and one really annoying yet adorable dog. (I'm a cat person yay!) I work as a Marketing Coordinator for a relatively huge company and I own my own graphics design agency as well so don't expect blog entries often. Who knows maybe this will catch on for me. I find myself starting to feel more and more comfortable wearing 3XL and 4XL clothes mostly because I prefer the bagginess of them, and for work I now have to wear a more business casual and business attire time to time which I am still not use to wearing. *puts on glasses because I have 34 year old eyes now*

So back to my journey through hell. I call it a journey through hell because it is quite frankly; to me anyway. Talking about weight and being overweight/obesse, and food has always been a nightmare for me. I avoid stepping on scales, they give me instant immediate anxiety and I already take medication for my anxiety. I am depressed of myself and I am not sure if I love myself or not. Thats the first stage - Love thy self. HOW!!?????

Ugh This is already too long, no one is going to read all this.

Stay Tuned for more of this hellish journey of mine.

#weight loss #mens health #anxiety

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expvrgction · 1 year

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Crash seems to be on a bed of the makeshift bunker she and her motley crew set up after having spent quite some time in Hell.

Even in the Dark Realm people can still fall ill, and whatnot with the presence of hellish radiation. She wonders why she manages to not end up like those fiends, let alone the rest of the team.

Running down with fever somewhat brings a homely nostalgia for her... But being bedridden where she and anyone else could get killed is a bad idea.

A series of coughs can be heard from her sickbed. "Augh... Of all places to get sick it'd be here. Great." As soon as she complains, however, she looks down the sheet covering her legs. "...Blazkowicz probably would've had worse, though."

Phobos comes in with bottled water supply, a pack of military rations and medication. Whomever made this bunker before they found it left in haste, and probably has met their end in the hands of one of the many demons.

"Well, Cait, at least you're here wit' us. I wouldn't know what ta do without'cha."

"That... Is true." Crash looks at her former superior. "...Are Stan and Morgan still out?" "Won't be for long. They'll be back soon-- They gotta check the comms tower not that far from here-- See if that can be repaired."

"..." Crash nods, now remaining silent and deep in thought. Her sleep has been plagued by strange dreams lately, and some tethering into nightmares.

...It brings her attention to the man who looks like Blazkowicz, but everything about him was wrong, wrong, wrong-- From the tattoo-like markings to those burning, red eyes. Is there really an evil version of him running around in Hell?

"Meal's ready. Chicken soup with some bread, from the looks of it." Phobos's voice snaps his fellow soldier out of it.

"...Thanks." The woman in her equally makeshift sick gown-- One scavenged from an old, tattered banner takes her meal. Even if something has happened that now makes her virtually immortal, she still has her needs. Physical and mental fatigue are otherwise things she would have to risk.

When one looks at her, she is such a beauty-- Fair skin, red hair, a pair of eyes with mismatched colors (One iris blue and the other red). The athletic build of her body, among other things-- Has on multiple occasions saved her when she is in a pinch.

#Welcome (IC)#Here Comes A Thought (Musings)#Covers are all they judge books by today (Drabble)#Marine Mom (Crash)#Feeb'os (Phobos)#(lmao i'm sicc again so marine mom will have to suffer with me)

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scuttle-buttle · 3 years

Text

WC: 2261

Rated: M

Tags: angst, medical issues, pregnancy complications, hurt/comfort, anxiety, brief mentions of medical procedures but no gore, nothing is technically sad, fluff, papa laszloooo

A/N: honestly tho I am sorry. also i maybe cried a little writing this, which is a first. also also everybody is fine in this it's just emotional

Blame @hardlyinteresting

🧠

"Three weeks…. Three weeks little bean…" you mumble as you rub your protruding stomach after a particularly harsh kick to your ribs. The chair was a sweet relief to your ankles after a long day at work and doing some light chores around the house all afternoon. You had three weeks until you hit 39 weeks into your pregnancy. As much as you were anxious you were ready. Ready to not feel like a bloated whale. Ready to not have sore feet. But most of all, ready to hold your baby girl.

Laszlo had been trying to convince you to take it easy and start maternity leave early, but you resisted. The last thing you were about to do is nothing. Most first pregnancies went late anyway, you'd argued, so you didn't worry about it yet. I’m pregnant, not dying - give me another week, you'd told him.

What you didn't tell him was about the headaches. Or how sore your legs were. Or how absolutely exhausted you'd been feeling the last couple weeks. Whenever he would ask if you were alright or offer a foot rub you would just brush it off as third trimester woes. You didn't want to worry him.

You were sat in an armchair in the parlor, feet propped up, damp rag over your eyes. The droning from the tv had your nerves on edge. All you wanted to do was take some tylenol and feel better, but you had been knocking back more than was probably safe the last few days so you went without.

A sudden pain shoots through you causing the rag to fall onto your chest. “Ohh...ow? OW!” You sit up straighter as the ache persists; the dull throbbing in your upper abdomen unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. Were you in labor early? Did she just kick in a bad spot? No no - surely the pain would’ve died down by now had that been the case. Unless? Can babies kick so hard they rupture something? Did my kid just bust my liver? Your thoughts run rampant as you wait, in vain, for the pain to go away. The pricking behind your eyes and in your temples only made it more hellish. Pressing your palm to the spot does nothing, nor do the breathing exercises you had been taught.

When five minutes have passed by without relief you make the choice to call out for your husband. “Laz?” No response. “Laszlo!” A beat passes; nothing. You swallow through your building nausea.

“I swear to fucking-” you growl as you snatch your phone from the end table to your left. You use all your concentration to dial his number.

It rings four times.

“Bärchen, why are you call-”

You don’t let him finish. “Something’s wrong.”

______

Head thrown back into the flat, starchy hospital pillow you groan in frustration. “permanent bedrest?” You scrub the hand not clutching your belly down your face.

The emergency room Obstetrician gives you a pitying look. “I’m afraid so - your blood pressure is high and we want to keep it under control to prevent outcomes such as pre-eclampsia. I recommend doing as little as absolutely possible; get rid of as many stressors as you can.” He flips through your chart. “You said you’ve been having headaches and fatigue for nearly two weeks? Why didn’t you come in sooner?”

Huffing, you tell him “I thought it was just part of the third trimester. Everyone always complains about how bad it is.” He hums in response.

“Well. I’m going to go take a final look at your labs, make sure everything else is fine before we discharge you. I’ll send in my Nurse Practitioner to give you the run down and anything else you’ll need to know. And should anything else like this happen again - get in here immediately.” He pats you awkwardly on the hand before nodding at Laszlo and leaving the room.

Laszlo.

Sparing a glance from the corner of your eye you see him looking towards his lap, his weaker hand cradled in the other. He’d been quiet since you admitted when your symptoms had first begun. Every single time he’d asked you how you were feeling you had lied to him. Granted, you didn’t technically know you were lying. But it makes little difference when you’re sitting in the ER. He had every reason to be upset.

“Laszlo honey,” you reach over to him. Slowly he takes your proferred hand and stands, coming to stop beside the bulky bed frame. His thumb caresses your wrist.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve examined the signs, kept a better eye on you.”

“Laz-”

“-No-”

“-I didn’t want to worry you, okay?-” Your voice breaks as you defend yourself.

“-I could’ve done something, maybe- I don't know!” His slightly raised voice startles you quiet. The pain in his eyes only makes you feel guiltier. He licks his lips. “I took the liberty of calling your mother. She will be here tomorrow afternoon and will be staying in the guest room as long as we need her.”

Now you look away, indignant. “I don’t need to be watched like I’m a child.” The tears behind your eyelids rush in; a lone drop trailing down your cheek as the embarrassment settles within your gut. You knew that at some point it was likely you would need her here. However you imagined it to be under happier circumstances. A deep inhale fails to calm your sobs. “I just- I don’t want to be a burden with all this.” Your tears flow freely now.

“My dear you could never be.” Laszlo sits on the edge of the bed. He rests his right palm above the swell of your child, his left cupping along the curve of your jaw. He tilts you to face him. “But the health of you and our girl is what is most crucial now. Let us take care of you. Please.”

A gentle kick underneath his palm from your daughter is answer enough.

__________

Two weeks. 14 days.

Lying in bed, sitting in the same spot for hours on end was actually going to be the death of you. You were sure of it.

Your mother truly has been a huge help since arriving. Laszlo wanted to start his paternity leave, but you insisted that he stay until you were closer to your due date. Which couldn’t come fast enough, you might add. Both Laszlo and your mother were prone to pestering you about some things, but at other times if you truly wanted to be alone they gave you your space. Now was one of those times. Laptop to your side, you watch another episode of Grey’s Anatomy. A knock sounds. You turn to see your husband standing in the doorway, the blood pressure monitor in arm.

He gives you a bright smile. “How are you two on this fine afternoon?”

“Cut it with the attitude, bucko. Let’s get this over with.” The words, while harsh, had little bite to them. His brow raises but he says nothing. You honestly felt bad that you’d been in a pretty foul mood since being discharged. On more than one occasion you’d said as much to Laszlo and your mother - they didn’t deserve your ire. Thankfully they understood why you were so frustrated.

You held the strap in place as he secured the velcro and started the machine. Buzzing filled the overall quiet room. Closed eyes you wait. Some days your results were higher than others. Unless you became higher than a certain threshold the doctor said you were safe to be home. At the sound of a beep Laszlo unhooks the cuff, reporting that your levels are within the acceptable range. When he goes to leave you alone you clutch at his sleeve. He waits as you peer up at him. “Stay?”

He never could say no to you.

______

Little bean’s ruthless treatment of your bladder had you up for the second time that night. You waddled to the bathroom to attend to your business and wash your hands. Glancing at the circles under your eyes in the mirror you sigh. “I love you baby bean but you’re giving me a run for my money here, kid,” you whisper as you rub your stomach. Three days, you remind yourself.

The floor creaks as you shuffle back to bed. Suddenly, an odd warm trickling sensation travels down your legs. “What the fuck?” Looking down around your bulging bump you find yourself standing in a small puddle, the glint of the bathroom night light reflecting off the surface. “Shit okay…ah Laszlo? Hey, I need you to wake up.”

He grumbles. With a roll of your eyes you walk over and shake him awake. “Hey- what-” he sits up instantly and blinks at you. “Is everything alright?”

“My water broke.”

He hops into action right away. Moving you to sit on the bed, he pulls out his cell phone to call your doctor. As he talks you watch him move around the room, the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, as he collects your hospital supplies. You feel useless as you sit. Yet, you know that your priority needs to be keeping yourself calm and that moving around could exacerbate your condition.

He hangs up. Coming to stand in front of you he presses a kiss to your forehead; “I’ll go wake your mother. Don’t move, Liebling.”

As you sit you blow out a long breath. You look down at your bump. “Guess you decided you’re ready to go, huh kid?” The tip of your fingers brush along the side of your stomach. “I know we’re ready for you too. We’re going to love you so much, and your daddy? He’s gonna be the best, you’ll see.” Placing your palms flat she nudges you from within.

_____

The doctors decided that a c-section was the safest route. You both knew it was a possibility, but you had hoped that after weeks of bedrest that your blood pressure would balance out enough for a natural delivery. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. They monitored you for an hour before your contractions began, officially confirming you were in fact in active labor and dilating. After the fourth hour your blood pressure began to spike again. That’s when they decided to prep you for the procedure.

The operation went smoothly. The atmosphere of the surgical suite was tense with your nerves, but Laszlo’s calming words and his hand squeezing yours kept the anxiety from spilling over. You even found it in you to poke fun at how ridiculous he looked in the puffy blue elastic hair cap he wore.

When the first cries rang out you nearly tried to hop off the table to see your baby. The doctors worked quickly to ensure you were in proper condition while the infant was cleaned.

“Dad? Would you like to come and cut the cord?” one of the nurses calls out.

Laszlo looks back at them before turning to face you. He searches your eyes for a moment; “go,” you nod with a smile. You watch as he did what the nurses instructed as best you could, her soft wails echoing in the small room. He returns to you right after while they finish wrapping her up in a blanket.

“She’s beautiful my dear,” your professor confesses. He leans to give you a lingering kiss. “I’m so unbelievably proud of you.”

“I love you so much.”

“As I love you.”

The doctor interrupts your moment. “Would you like to hold your baby girl?” The question is directed at you, but you look over to your husband. The man you love more than life itself. He stares at the little bundle as if she’s the most incredible sight he’s ever laid eyes on. He can’t take his gaze off her. His irises sparkle with unshed tears as he looks on with wonder.

“Laz?” Finally he breaks away. “Hold your little girl - she’s been waiting to meet her Papa.”

Carefully the doctor shifts his hold on the babe to slide her into Laszlo’s waiting arm. He swallows as he pulls her to his chest. Something caught between a sob and a laugh leaves him. You blink through your own tears at the sight of your husband and daughter, a sight so far beyond perfect there could be no words. Laszlo held her with such delicacy, such reverence. It was as if any moment she could slip away as though a dream.

“Hello there my little dove, I’ve been waiting a very long time to meet you.” He doesn’t bother to wipe away the streams that fall from his eyes. “I’m your Papa and I-” he sniffs, looking towards the ceiling and blinking rapidly to clear his eyes. You rest your hand on his bicep. “I love you so very much. I would give you the world if I could. Your grandfather didn’t...he was not....” he pauses to gather himself. “To me you are the greatest gift I could ever receive. I will be the best father I can for you. A father worthy of you. Mein Gott, Ich liebe dich my darling dove.”

He continued to hold her in his arms until it was time to take you into the recovery room. When he had asked if you wanted her you simply shook your head. You would get your chance, you had a lifetime to do so. But your Laszlo needed this. He needed his little dove.

Tag list

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thelovelygods · 3 years

Link

As a teenager, Sylvia Plath vividly understood the extent to which her body steered her. "If I didn't have sex organs, I wouldn't waver on the brink of nervous emotion and tears all the time," she wrote in her journal in 1950. Ten days before her death, she had come to believe that "fixed stars/Govern a life." It turns out that Plath was probably right -- more right than she could have possibly known -- about her biology and her fate. But when Plath's journals were first published in 1982, what was most obvious about her was the supercharged nature of her emotions. Whatever causal agents may have been governing Plath's life, they were blown back by the force of her personality.

As unmistakable as were Plath's volatile emotions in the 1982 journals, the heavy editing of the text necessarily made it hard to discern the patterns to her moods. Even so, there did seem to be a detectable pattern, and it did not seem then, nor had it seemed to the people closest to her during the last years of her life, to be merely a function of temperament. In the weeks before her suicide, Plath's physician, John Horder, noted that Plath was not simply deeply depressed, but that her condition extended beyond the boundaries of a psychological explanation.

In a letter years later to Plath biographer Linda Wagner-Martin, Horder stated: "I believe ... she was liable to large swings of mood, but so excessive that a doctor inevitably thinks in terms of brain chemistry. This does not reduce the concurrent importance of marriage break-up or of exhaustion after a period of unusual artistic activity or from recent infectious illness or from the difficulties of being a responsible, practical mother. The full explanation has to take all these factors into account and more. But the irrational compulsion to end it makes me think that the body was governing the mind."

For at least the past 10 years it has been generally assumed that Plath fit the schema of manic-depressive illness, with alternating periods of depression and more productive and elated episodes.

The hypothesis that Plath suffered from a bipolar disorder is persuasive. But in late 1990, another, even more intriguing medical theory emerged. Using the evidence of Plath's letters, poems, biographies and the 1982 journals, a graduate student named Catherine Thompson proposed that Plath had suffered from a severe case of premenstrual syndrome. In "Dawn Poems in Blood: Sylvia Plath and PMS," which appeared in the literary magazine Triquarterly, Thompson theorized that Plath's mood volatility, depressions, many chronic ailments and ultimately her suicide were traceable to the poet's menstrual cycles and the hormonal disruptions caused by PMS.

Thompson pointed out that Plath unwittingly recorded experiencing on a cyclical basis all of the major symptoms of PMS, as well as many others, including low impulse control, extreme anger, unexplained crying and hypersensitivity. She also suffered many of the physical symptoms associated with PMS, notably extreme fatigue, insomnia and hypersomnia, extreme changes in appetite, itchiness, conjunctivitis, ringing in the ears, feelings of suffocation, headaches, heart palpitations and the exacerbation of chronic conditions such as her famous sinus infections.

Thompson compared Plath's reported mood and health changes with the journals, letters and biographies and found that her symptoms seemed to appear and disappear abruptly on a fairly regular schedule, with clusters of physical symptoms and depressive affect followed by dramatic changes in outlook and overall physical health. Those patterns can be directly linked to the dates of Plath's actual menses, particularly in 1958 and 1959, when she most habitually noted her cycles. Judging from the pattern of Plath's depression and health in late 1952 and in 1953 until her Aug. 24 suicide attempt, Thompson posited that "it seems reasonable to conclude that this suicide attempt was directly precipitated by hormonal disruption during the late luteal phase of her menstrual cycle and secondarily by her loss of self-esteem at being unable to control her depression."

Thompson showed that a well-known journal entry from Feb. 20, 1956, is clearly traceable to Plath's menses, to which she refers directly a few days later. The journal fragment takes on new meaning in light of having been written during the physically and emotionally debilitating luteal phase of Plath's cycle: "Dear Doctor: I am feeling very sick. I have a heart in my stomach which throbs and mocks. Suddenly the simple rituals of the day balk like a stubborn horse. It gets impossible to look people in the eye: corruption may break out again? Who knows. Small talk becomes desperate. Hostility grows, too. That dangerous, deadly venom which comes from a sick heart. Sick mind, too." On Feb. 24, the same day she notes in her journal that she has a sinus cold and "atop of this, through the hellish sleepless night of feverish sniffling and tossing, the macabre cramps of my period (curse, yes) and the wet, messy spurt of blood," Plath wrote a letter to her mother blaming her dark mood on her physical health: "I am so sick of having a cold every month; like this time, it generally combines with my period."

By the fall of 1962, the poems (which Plath carefully dated as they were completed) seem to follow a pattern of metaphorical renewals and optimistic transformations for roughly two to three weeks of artistic production, then jagged, seething accusations and aggression for a couple of weeks.

Thompson's PMS theory has been largely ignored by Plath scholars. But it immediately gained two important supporters: Anne Stevenson, Plath's controversial biographer, and Olwyn Hughes, Plath's former sister-in-law, whose letters were published in a subsequent issue of Triquarterly. Though oddly defensive in tone, Stevenson's letter does commend Thompson for her "invaluable contribution to Plath scholarship ... Certainly no future study of Plath will be able to ignore the probable effects of premenstrual syndrome on her imagination and behavior." And it states that she wishes she had been able to utilize Thompson's insights in the writing of her own work on Plath.

A letter from Olwyn Hughes also congratulates Thompson for her scholarship, but unlike Stevenson, Hughes practically stumbles over herself in amazement at the PMS theory. Hughes, who was quoted in Janet Malcolm's book "The Silent Woman: Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes" as characterizing her long-dead sister-in-law as "pretty straight poison," wrote to Thompson: "It is quite a shock to digest all this -- after thinking for so long that Sylvia's subconscious mind was her prison, and to suddenly realise it may well have been in part, or wholly, her body. But it certainly tallies with Ted's mentions -- he has always felt some chemical imbalance was involved."

Hughes further points out that Ted Hughes had spoken of Plath's ravenous appetite just prior to her periods and asks, "I wonder if that is a known characteristic of PMS?" (According to the PMS literature, it is.) But most tellingly, Olwyn Hughes explains that "one of the reasons I was so bowled over by your piece is that Sylvia's daughter, very like her physically, suffers quite badly from PMS but is, in these enlightened times, aware of it and treats it."

Dr. Glenn Bair, one of the leading experts on PMS treatment and research in the United States, confirmed to Salon that PMS is typically passed from mother to daughter. In a rare interview about her parents, Frieda Hughes told the Manchester Guardian in 1997 that after the "collapse of her health," including extreme fatigue and gynecological problems, she underwent a hysterectomy in her 30s.

After a careful review of Thompson's article, of a seven-page monthly breakdown of Plath's symptoms for 1958 through 1959 and of the documented evidence of Plath's pregnancies and postpartum symptoms of 1959 through 1962, Bair said, "If you hack through the PMDD criteria, I think that you'll find that she fits the PMDD profile."

#sylvia plath #pmdd #this almost made me cry #SHE UNDERSTOOD

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mortalfaerie · 3 years

Text

Stimulants (S.R)

spencer reid x bau (adhd) reader

word count: 1441

synopsis: reader has inattentive adhd but hasn't brought it up with the team before. after a few on-site assignments that drag into the night, spencer notices the signs of adderall wearing off and asks reader about it.

TW FOR DRUG MENTION AND DISCUSSION

these away assignments could prove to be hellish. it couldn't be helped- the nature of your work meant that you didn't exactly work at normal 9-to-5, and sometimes your team was wracking their mind in a small police station conference room at 2 am on a tuesday, knowing fully well that a killer was still on the loose. generally, you could be relied upon to focused and engaged during cases, providing useful insight or simply making witty banter with your teammates- but inside, you hoped that the case would wrap up timely enough that you wouldn't be blankly staring down into you 4th post-sunset cup of coffee, not taking in a word around you.

however, that's what you were doing at the moment.

"Y/L/N?" you heard Hotch say pointedly.

“Huh?” you snapped out of your haze, embarrassed, and Hotch gave you a sympathetic nod. “I understand, we’re all feeling a little burned out, but we have to focus. The unsub is out there.”

You gave a nod to the table and pursed your lips, then taking a long gulp of coffee.

work, work, work! you chided yourself.

you took your usual dose of adderall around 7 in the morning each day, and you could trust that you’d have a safe 11-12 hours of focus and level-headedness. However, its half-life ran out roughly 7 hours ago, and you were painfully aware of it. you had gotten the short end of the stick mentally, having gotten inattentive adhd as supposed to hyperactive adhd, which most people were familiar with. so, instead of having boundless energy that would have been useful right now, you couldn't stay engaged in the case for longer than 10 minutes at a time, and now your teammates were noticing.

you volunteered to go fetch some back records from the local legal archive next door, needing to clear your head- but with an unsub preying on women alone at night, Spencer was quick to volunteer himself to go with you. you walked mostly in silence to the elevator, but he spoke when the doors closed in front of you.

“Caffeine’s a stimulant.” he stated plainly.

“Uh. Yeah, it is.” you responded, not knowing where he was going with this.

“You know that you probably shouldn't be mixing stimulants.” he added, meeting your gaze in the reflective elevator doors.

you gaped at him for a moment, before loosing a dry laugh. “Are you diagnosing me with addiction, Dr. Reid?”

“Well, no, not precisely. You're evidently dependent on stimulants- I’ll wager that you take them around 7 or 8 each morning before work?”

you just gave a measured nod in response, not in the mood to deny it.

“Ritalin?” he asked, this time meeting your gaze directly.

“Adderall. Prescription, just so we're clear.”

“I figured as much- a normal person on adderall wouldn't have the same decline in ability after the half-life.”

you sighed. “Is it that obvious?” you ask. in the two months since you joined the bau, you had hoped you'd be able to stay on top of late night cases, or that they would be few and far between. as you were learning, the homicidal maniacs of the world didn't obey normal work hours.

he offered you a sympathetic smile. “I don't think anybody else thinks it's anything more than fatigue. I'm just a little more aware of it.” after a pause in which you studied the floor of the elevator, he added “You might consider getting a “bump” pill.”

you looked up and raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you suggesting I do drugs?” you asked, only half sarcastic.

he flushed and backtracked. “Oh, no! I-” and you laughed openly, a good laugh, as the elevator doors opened. You proceeded through the lobby and put into the street with a flustered Dr. Spencer Reid on your heels. catching up to you, he explained, “A “bump” pill is a small amount of a stimulant that diffuses faster than your normal extended release medication, so you get a measured amount of focus for an hour or two after your primary stimulant wears off.”

you nodded, and pulled out your phone to put it on your calendar for your next doctor’s appointment. “Well, thank you, Reid.” you said, tucking your phone back in your pocket. “That would actually be pretty useful.”

clearly satisfied with himself, he gave a quick nod as you continued on to the legal archive. about two minutes had passed in silence before he abruptly said, “Call me Spencer.”

“Hm?” you responded, again forcing your brain to focus.

“Call me Spencer. You keep calling me Dr. Reid or Reid, but you don't have to.” on a more measured breath he added, “My friends call me Spencer.”

at this, you smiled. you had been fond of him since your first day, but were rarely alone to get to know him personally. you could tell the most obvious aspects of his personality and interests that he shared with the team, but all the while, he had apparently deduced that you had adhd and took medication for it by your behavior after hours alone.

“Alright then, Spencer. Then you call me Y/N.” you agreed.

“Y/N.” he said, as though trying out the sound of it.

As you thumbed through files in the archive looking for a specific box of court records, you and Spencer talked more, as he hinted that he knew what it was to be neurodivergent. you had wondered, of course- you were keenly aware of your ability to fixate on things and favor specific sensations over others- you couldn't stand the texture of chalk, and all your blouses were cotton since polyester felt like nails on a chalkboard for you to touch. you had noticed Spencer had similar reservations about things, but they were easily dismissible as him being eccentric.

walking back to the police station, each holding a box of files, he addressed your speculations. “If you wanted to talk about this again, I’d be glad to. I know what it is to have a mind that doesn't run like others do.”

you snorted, and gave you a confused glance. “No, I believe you, Spencer,” you explained. “But it seems to mostly work in your favor.”

he scoffed. “Not always. I have an eidetic memory, but I'd love to be able to read social cues. I'm well aware I can't do that, trust me.”

you smiled. “Well then, I'll trade you social graces for memory. I'd love to actually have a sense of object permanence.”

re-entering the elevator, he laughed. “Then it's a deal, we’ll swap.”

“Fantastic! I've always wanted to know what it's like to be a genius.” you exclaimed on a laugh.

“You don't think you are one?” he asked, more pointedly than you expected.

“I- no? Why would I?” you asked, a little shocked.

“Why wouldn't you?”

“Because I'm impulsive? I can be oblivious to the things right in front of me? Oh, and I have an executive function disorder? That doesn't really sound like Einstein to me.” you listed off, as though it were obvious.

“Impulsive, sure, but you're knowledgeable beyond what anyone would expect. You should see the expressions of the others when you told them the history of the ferris wheel on the last case- you even beat me to it. You see patterns that others don't, and you understand emotions on a level that the others can't imagine, because they've never been in your shoes as a kid with a learning disability.” he countered as the elevator ticked up and up the floors.

“You flatter me.” you said flatly, clearly skeptical.

“No, I'm being honest. You're incredibly intelligent. But if you only ever measure yourself by your perceived shortcomings, you'll never see that for yourself.” he said, matter-of-factly.

As the elevator doors opened again, the two of you were surprised to see the team suiting up in kevlars with Hotch on the phone with the local sheriff.

“Finally!” Prentiss exclaimed. “We’ve got a hit on the unsub, Morgan and I are heading over now- Hotch and local law enforcement are meeting us on-scene. Go put the boxes in the conference room and get back here.”

“Uh- of course!” you said, and you and Spencer exchanged a bewildered look as you rushed to go put the files away.

The clock back in the conference room told you it was closing in on 3 am. You huffed an exasperated sigh. “Does evil ever consider a good night’s rest might be pretty fulfilling?” you asked rhetorically.

“No.” Spencer said, setting down his box. “No, it never seems to do.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds oneshot #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #adhd #adhd reader

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