#my body hurts and my feet are blistered- and I was assigned to help my supervisor wrap up in equipment for the week

[worldssilliestserpent]

bruhh the world really hates me this week

#let's see what happened? what hell did I go through? #we were down 12 people this week on the team- so we had two 12-hour work days #my body hurts and my feet are blistered- and I was assigned to help my supervisor wrap up in equipment for the week #which I barely got training on #yesterday I accidentally tripped the emergency fire exit alarm in walmart cause my dumbass didn't watch where I was going #which caused me to have a meltdown which I was trying VERY hard to hold back and not sob my eyes out in front of my boss #My belt buckle broke while I was working today so I had to stop and shop for a new one #I tripped and ate shit while packing the equipment cases into my supervisor's hotel room last night #my leg gave out from under me when I tried to stand up after counting a shelf in grocery and I rolled my ankle #I got lost when my supervisor told me to take the equipment to the back room #I had to stop and ask two walmart employees where it was located- neither of them knew #I've been overstimulated since first break this morning #I got so many scratches on my arrms from counting pegs in apparel and those bitches are so sharp they'd make my therapist concerned #aaaand while wrapping up equipment there was a bike hung up on a shelf and I ran face-first into the handlebar and I bent my glasses frames #so now I gotta get those fixed #I'm quickly making my way to the top in competing for 'most directionally challenged' as my supervisor jokingly put it #I'M GONNA GO DOWN TO THE LOBBY TOMORROW MORNING AND MAKE MYSELF A WAFFLE FOR BREAKFAST #I DESERVE A TREAT

[byeol-ssi]

reasoning

✦ diluc r. x gn!reader

✦ tags: mentions of injury, nothing explicit.

✦ oneshot request. prompt.

"what the hell happened back there?!" you thundered, swinging the door open with a force that made the entire room shake.

DILUC should've known that you wouldn't let him off so easily.

he mulls over the options he had at present, considering strategies he'd used constantly in the past to get people to leave him alone. he decides on the most effective one under his belt, and one that worked ninety-nine percent of the time.

which was to ignore you. like usual.

it doesn't work. and of course, it's you who shatters his record.

you heatedly stride right up to him in retaliation, and it's terrible that you're this close because he's already lost a lot of blood and thinking straight isn't really something he can do right now.

and so he's left with his second-best option, which was to be as blunt as possible, and hope for the best, "it's nothing that should concern you."

your nostrils flare and diluc gives up on even trying to deliberate on his other options. he's already lost.

"you know what?" you throw your hands up in vexation. "this time, it actually does! because whether you like it or not, i was assigned with you, and i have every right—"

diluc knows he should be listening to you right now, and truthfully, if it was any other day, he would have gladly done so for hours on without end.

but nausea still crept up from his abdomen whenever he recalls how he'd lost sight of you in the middle of blistering smoke and unforgiving rain. the ringing in his ears while he watched a coursing stream of crimson from where you once stood run hauntingly beneath his feet. it rendered every muscle in his body rigid, snapping only out of his trance when he was attacked from behind.

even then, he moved on autopilot, and it was as if he was watching somebody else control his body as his entire system shut down.

a familiar numbness had overtaken him until he found out you were fine. you're still here — breathing and full of life — and you're still ... lecturing him for spacing out in battle.

"—i never understood why you stubbornly insist—" you pause and diluc's breath catches in his throat. his skin burns from your assessment when you narrow your eyes. "you're upset."

"i'm not," he lies.

he was. about a multitude of things that could equal the size of a meteor. he was also in excruciating pain, feeling as if he was slowly being crushed to death by said meteor.

"you are," you argue. "that's your i'm–in–huge–discomfort–and–wish–to–run–away–from–this–conversation–face."

"you're mistaken. i do not run away from anything," diluc denies with a huff. "and i likewise do not have ... a face."

"sure you do. your eyebrows knit together the slightest inch and you pout like this," you scrunch your face into what he assumes is an impression of him, and diluc has to clench his fists to stop himself from doing something foolish.

something foolish like grasping the back of your neck and kissing you silly just to wipe that pout off your face, stop you from making fun of him, and wholly because you looked downright endearing.

but then you'd probably hate him even more, and diluc doesn't really want that.

"is it me?" you ask, a little calmer than when you'd entered. "is the idea of asking me for help really that awful to you?"

"that's not it," he grinds out. your eyes widen a fraction at his tone, and he thinks that's finally done it.

he shouldn't feel irritated for having you misunderstand. after all, pushing you away has been his goal ever since he realized that the feelings he held for you extended beyond friendship.

he expects you to finally walk out, yet you only cross your arms, leveling him with a stare. "then tell me what's wrong."

where does he even start?

"i got ... hurt." he decides carefully.

apparently, it isn't careful enough because your mouth flattens into a displeased line. "where?"

"it's not that bad."

"that doesn't answer my question."

diluc sighs. he shrugs off his coat, revealing the gaping wound on his shoulder.

"not bad?!" you scream. diluc winces. "are you even looking at it?!"

in a matter of seconds, you've pushed him into the bathroom and the speed of his heart picks up when you close the door behind you and put your hands on his chest to help him undress.

diluc swallows, grasping your fingers before you can finish undoing the third button. "i'll do it," he says, his voice sounding a touch more strained.

your head snaps up to him and diluc looks away. a flush erupts on your cheeks when you realize what you've done.

"right." you clear your throat awkwardly before yanking your hands away.

diluc wishes he had a bigger bathroom, as maneuvering to remove his clothes was proving to be quite difficult. he'd even bumped into you thrice now.

"i can stitch it up myself," he offers, noticing your discomfort.

you hoist yourself up on the sink counter, the medical kit plopped neatly on your lap. "don't be stupid. i'm not leaving you." you scold, motioning for him to come closer.

he shouldn't.

but he's already stepping forward in the space between your thighs. he places his arms on either side of you, gripping the counter to keep his hands to himself.

he's unsure whether the sound of flowing water is coming from the faucet or the blood rushing to his ears from the feeling of having you so close.

your eyes flick towards his for a heartbeat. a silent question to continue, and he nods.

it's always been strange. there were moments like this where he'd like to believe that you didn't hate him for what he had ruined. moments where you drowned just as deep as he did — bringing out emotions in him he couldn't fathom.

"you looked pretty shaken earlier." you wring the bloodied towel into the sink.

diluc chewed on his lip. you were looking for an answer, he knew, though you were still allowing him a way out.

he couldn't admit to you that he'd been panic–stricken. how was he going to say that he was ready to sacrifice himself at any moment for you without making him appear like a complete and total psycho?

how was he going to confess that he's fallen for your thoughts, the way your entire face lights up whenever you talk about something you love, and the way you're never afraid to speak your mind?

wanting you anyway.

that he's fallen for you and he's wanted you ever since — but wanting you terrified him to his core, because it would mean that he had something to lose, but here he was.

it's a special kind of torture — doing his utmost to make you hate him and never resisting the urge to be far away from you.

"you're trembling." you hesitantly bring a hand to brush his bottom lip. you'd already finished bandaging up his wound, and even in the dim light, he could see your worry.

"i'm afraid," he blurts out.

you're close, and he can almost count each shallow breath you took in the tiny, intimate bathroom. "of?"

diluc grimaces. "i'm afraid of a great deal of things."

"you can tell me." it's reassuring. forgiving. tempting.

"they're ... unpleasant." he says, letting out an agitated breath. "i'm unpleasant."

"is that supposed to scare me?" you raise an eyebrow, not at all fazed.

yes, diluc thinks. you should be scared. of him. of this entire situation. of you being enclosed in here with him, and how he'd already encaged you between his arms and you allowed him to.

you aren't even aware of the things he'd do to you, and his rationality is non–existent at the moment.

"i'm right here," you say softly when he doesn't answer. there's another long deafening pause before you add, "i've always been right here. you simply refuse to look at me."

diluc slowly blinks before laughing at the irony of it all. the sound is unfamiliar — even to him — and your entire expression morphs into shock.

"what?" you ask. color rises from your neck to your cheeks. this kind of red was the one he preferred and always looked wonderful on you.

adorable, he thinks. the hands he'd been restraining for so long find their way to your face.

"what's so funny?" you ask again, indignant, but you don't lean away.

his self–control fizzles out and he does the one thing he's wanted to do ever since you dragged him into this room. he should've known that there was no return.

he kisses you and swallows your gasp.

you'd be the death of him, even if you were constantly at war. both of you were like shooting stars way out of their course, smashing into one another when all diluc's ever wanted was to smash his lips against yours.

just like this.

when the two of you finally break away, diluc swipes his thumb across your swollen lip, in the same fashion that you had done mere moments ago.

"oh, sweetheart, i've only ever had eyes for you."

✦ byeol's notes: hello ten! <3 i'm very excited for your new writing blog, and i'll be here to support you all the way. i hope everyone else checks it out at @xzho-writes ♡

✦ reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated!

#genshin impact oneshots #genshin impact #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact diluc #diluc ragnvindr x reader #diluc ragnvindr x you #diluc ragnvindr #diluc x you #diluc x reader #diluc x y/n #genshin drabbles #genshin impact fluff #genshin fanfic #genshin impact fic #✦ sub–scenario.

[hongssami]

eric sohn with a summer job (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

//mentions of bruising (but no violence), cursing, fem!reader

fluff, f2l, a bit of fantasy heh,  1.7k+ words

“i can’t believe they hired you after you introduced yourself in english and said a couple of lines in english”

youngjae shrugs mid-bite of his double cheese burger , “it’s the prince eric charm, i guess”

when youngjae said he wanted a summer job, you did not expect him to grab one at the very same theme park you applied to (he didn’t seem like the type to work at such a place)

but you weren’t really complaining - that way you’d be able to see your best friend more during the summer break

and maybe you were secretly celebrating because this meant more blackmail potential hehehEHEHe

“what did you apply for anyway?”

you scowl and try to shake him off, saying it’s none of his business

and like the nosy and loud friend he is, youngjae whines for you to tell him

even going as far as shaking your arm in the process to which you mindlessly shrug off

so you give in, “one of the princesses. not telling you which one”

he whines even more and you swear you would have body slammed him if not if not for the fact that you were in a burger place

you met youngjae a couple days later in the employee room when you had your make-up done done and he had been 15 minutes later than you (you totally gave him shit for it)

he still hasn’t figured out which princess you are when he comes out in his prince eric costume

you really had to hold back from hitting him in a mermaid  costume  - it wouldn’t be good for your career

because youngjae is too busy trying not to publicly laugh his ass off when he sees you struggling to sit comfortably in your little lagoon

it kind of boggles your mind bc children are more drawn to him than you, The Little Mermaid

but like the rip-off version bc this isn’t Disney World and you’re literally just part-timing bc the park was understaffed

but you can’t really be upset bc youngjae handles children very well and it’s pretty endearing to see him them made up stories of prince eric that definitely was not in the movies

sometimes little girls come up to you with literal stars in their eyes and that burning passion that only children possess, saying things like “when i grow up, will i also find my prince eric?”

and whenever that happens you just get flashbacks of youngjae geeking out about taemin and baseball in his pokemon pajama bottoms or him stuffing his face with the local diner’s fries at 2 in the morning

and you smile because yeah, you hope these children could find find someone as transparent and bright as youngjae in their life

youngjae, on the other hand, cannot help but get flustered every time a kid catches him staring at you while you talk to other park-goers

“prince eric, how much do you love princess ariel?”

he gets asked this one day, a month into your summer jobs when you were yet again struggling with your tail

and he simply answers “i would drown for her” without thinking how morbid it sounded out loud, because he was too busy worrying how you were quite literally going to drown yourself if you didn’t get out of your fake tail costume soon

but the kid is just in awe at how cool prince eric sounded, not being able to say anything as youngjae makes his way to you and lift you out of the water, supporting the back of your knees and slinging your arm around his neck

even the kid’s guardian is amused when youngjae excuses himself (and you) to the employee room you’re both assigned to

the entire time you just flop uselessly in his arms because the goddamn silicon tail was actually starting to hurt your legs

youngjae ends up scolding you for not telling him about the bruises and blisters forming on your legs and feet due to your tail and demands you take a few days to a week off

and you really can’t say no to youngjae when he gets all protective and not when his furrowed eyebrows and he frown tells you “you fucked up, missy”

you are screaming inside because a) pain and b) youngjae is cute when he gets all concerned :’(

so you end up quitting the job because all the other tail costumes the park had was just as equally uncomfortable as the one you kept wearing for the whole month you worked there

youngjae wanted to quit too, but the owners basically begged for him to stay and now just visit once every week because you’re broke and park tickets Cost Money

when you do visit him he get’s all prim and proper like he doesn’t know you and has to show his best face as an employee and you just clown him for it

but to be fair, he’s really good at staying in character (you’re assuming it’s because he gets paid lol)

you don’t really bother him when he’s working apart from sneaking him hotdogs or something when no one is at his station

And as summer slowly comes to a close, youngjae gets more into the things the little kids tell him

he sounds like an excited kindergarten teacher whenever he talks to you about them and it’s sO CUTE younjae is just SO CUTE AAAaaaaAAAAAAAAAAh

one night (more like 1 in the morning), he calls you up asking if you wanted to grab a burger or something and as much as you want to smack him for waking you up at an ungodly hour you also wanted that free midnight snack

so you say yes

“great, meet me at the beach”

and you’re like ???? what ??? wh y?? ? but he already dropped the call and now you have no choice but to put on your hoodie and head there

you find youngjae’s bike haphazardly thrown to the side in the sand

and a meters is him with take out bags, staring at the rhythmic crashing of the ocean waves

and you can’t help but reach for the single-pearl necklace youngjae gave you the first time he invited you to the beach and it hits you that youngjae might hit you with some shocking news

because you two only come to the beach at an hour like this when something super significant has happened, like the beach at night was kind of your safe haven

so when you take your seat beside him, you’re not surprised to see him with a wistful spark in his eyes

“you know, today a kid asked me something funny. he asked if i –if prince eric was scared to lose ariel to the ocean”

all you could do was lean in closer in hopes to hear him better, because honestly you had no idea where he was going with this

but you guess it would hear him out for now

he smiles and turns to face you, “i told him that you shouldn’t be afraid of letting the ones you love be themselves”

you would be lying if your heart didn’t skip a beat at that

he stands up, still looking straight into your eyes and says “i want to show you something, but promise me you won’t freak out?”

you nod, thinking that he was just gonna show a tattoo or something

instead, he takes off to a running start into the ocean, not bothering to take off any article of clothing and you yell after him, unable to will yourself to enter the cold waters

shaking in confusion, your hand wanders to feel the curve of the pearl on your necklace, only to be surprised to feel an elongated sphere akin to a teardrop’s curve instead of the usual spherical curve

“eric, come back here! this isn’t funny!”

just as you finish your sentence, you make out a flash of something shiny pop out the water only to retreat back just as quickly as it appeared

for the nth time that summer you swore you were going to kill youngjae when his head resurfaces

you’re just about to tell him off again when a the same shiny thing flashes once again beside him and you realize

it’s a tail

it’s a mermaid’s tail

it’s his mermaid’s tail

well, merman but whatever

youngjae laughs at your disbelieving look and urges himself to get as close to the shore as best as his scaly arms could

“you called me eric, i felt like my mom was telling me off!”

and you mumble that you might as well be his mom when he constantly gives you heart attacks

but he’s more than relieved when you settle on the wet sand a couple of feet into the shoreline to talk with him on his level and sees that you’re not freaking out

“i promised i wouldn’t freak out, right? and weren’t you the one who told me that you shouldn’t be afraid of letting the ones you love be themselves a while ago?”

youngjae fucking G L E A M S and you swear you see sparkles around his face when he asks “you love me?”

and you question why you had to fall for a literal CHILD but smile and nod anyway

youngjae was this close to jumping you if it was not for his tail and you laugh when he starts pouting and whining

“change back and maybe i’ll consider giving you a kiss”

#the boyz scenarios #the boyz imagines #tbz scenarios #tbz imagines #eric sohn scenarios #eric sohn imagines #wingkkun writes

[writearctic]

Ask Me Again - oneshot

⚤︎ badboy!felix and fem!reader

✔︎ fluff, hints of angst, semi suggestive

⌨︎ 4.9k

monnie's @ "To Your Heart"

hello! this is our first book of The Pasta Chronicles! i'm so glad @monscastle was able to collab with me; also shoutout to monnie for the lovely banner~ ♡

“Go out with me.”

Lee Felix, the campus bad boy, asked you out. Again. It was a weekly occurrence: him asking you; you saying no as politely as possible.

He never stuttered his words. Not the first time and certainly not today. “Go out with me, y/n. Please.”

It sounded like a plea for you. But his voice never wavered. It kept you in reality that he was a player, and you were an ideal student. Not the best but better than him.

“Felix, I’m sorry. I can’t. Not with exams coming up,” you replied with a soft smile while stepping past the boy. You were lucky to find a real enough excuse. He dug his heels into the cement path and followed you-- an action you couldn’t fail to notice.

“Gosh, he’s a real stickler, huh?” Your roommate, Lea, quietly reminded you.

“After exams, y/n.” Felix sped up to stand in front of you, stopping your pace altogether. “I’ll wait ‘til exams are over.” He leaned forward and pecked the sweetest, gentlest kiss on your temple. He smirked at your blushed reaction before skipping back to his crowd.

“Well, I guess he won’t bother you for a bit.” Lea started walking again.

You bit your lip, mind still focused on how warm, how sweet, his lips felt on your skin. It made your heartbeat quicken; the thought of his lips on yours sent a nice, tingly flow throughout your body.

“Y/n.”

‘H-huh?” Lea snapped you out of your daydream.

“He won’t bother you for a bit.” She hooked her arm with yours and happily continued to your next lecture. “Now, you can put 110% into your grades.”

“I’m glad,” you faked a smile. Lea endlessly went on about her thesis book. Her words served as white noise to you though.

Honestly, you liked Felix. There was no doubt about it. He was courteous towards his professors. It was rare for him to turn in an assignment, but he was studious in class and never interrupted the professors or classmates.

He was kind and respectful, despite his liaisons with countless ladies on campus. When they came and begged to date him, he was thoughtful with his words. He never said no, but he never said yes. A handful of guys would ask him out as well, but Felix stuck to his words. He had a rule. No getting together, no relationships. No romance. Just a quick fuck. And everyone knew this. “Having strings ties you down. And I don’t see myself tied with you,” he had said, in the lightest way possible.

You haven’t slept with him, yet you knew he held a fragile piece of your heart. He was your fantasy. A dream. Nothing more. But it never hurts to dream.

Your mind stopped wandering when Lea opened the lecture hall door. As you entered, you were met with hateful glares from the students.

“Y/n. Lea. I saved you a seat.” Jackson’s deep voice startled you. Lea shuffled the pair of you through the isle and to the row Jackson was sitting in.

“Gosh, what the heck was that for? Is there something on my face, y/n?” Lea worried.

“No, Lea. You look beautiful as ever.”

She beamed back at you.

“Look.” Jackson held up his phone, allowing Lea and you to watch an Instagram story. It was you. Specifically, Felix kissing your temple.

Lea sighed. Someone had filmed the “intimate” moment you had with Felix. You read the words at the bottom of the post: ‘Another whore for Lix?’

You deserved this. It was karma coming to get you for the thoughts you had of the boy. You mindlessly reached your fingertips to where he kissed your skin. Why was he even attracted to you? Were you a dare? A dare for him to get in your pants? You had your dignity, but you thought this boy was melting it away piece by piece.

You returned to your shared rental with Lea after class ended. At the apartment desk, the security guard stopped you. “Miss Y/n. A boy left this parcel for you.” He grumbled and handed you the gift.

You thanked him kindly and proceeded up the stairs.

“Open it.” Lea crossed her arms and demanded after removing her shoes and coat.

You walked to the kitchen and cut the package with a pair of scissors. You dug into it and found a bag of homemade cake pops.

“I’ll take one thank youuu,” Lea joked while tearing the plastic bag of goodies from your hands. You giggled, a way of granting her permission as you watched her slump on the couch. You stepped to discard the package when a note card fell to the ground reading: ‘I’m sorry, y/n. If I had known they were filming us, I would have kissed you on those rosebud lips of yours to let everyone know you’re mine.’

You released a voiceless whimper. Felix was surely playing you, but he made you feel special and desired none the less.

You quickly picked up the note and hid it in your back pocket.

It's been almost two weeks since Felix last asked you out. You had seen him around campus and longingly stared at him in hopes he would look at you. The few times your eyes caught his, Felix blushed and turned away. Now that he was respecting your boundaries, you didn’t want him to ignore you.

The sneers and occasional trash talks you received since the video of Felix’s delicate kiss to your head didn’t get under your skin. The few times they would, you couldn’t think much of them; you had more important matters to ponder about. You chewed on the painful distance between you and Felix habitually.

Studying wasn’t worth it. Your mind always trailed back to him. You wondered how he was. You hoped he was fairing better than you with his studies. You couldn’t help but miss his tranquil presence. Even if he was desperate for you, Felix had a calming aura that aroused you in the most loving way.

Aside from studying, you couldn’t get much sleep at night. Felix was awaking you every time you tried to clear your mind. He had engulfed and overpowered you into a longing for him.

You sat down in your class with a huff.

“Someone’s grumpy,” Jackson teased playfully.

Upon seeing your lifeless form, Lea hummed. “I think it’s ‘cause she slept in.”

You folded your arms on the desk and threw your head down. “I’m not going to do well on this,” you muttered.

Jackson and Lea exchanged looks. “Y/n, you studied-”

“Not really,” you admit to them. “My mind’s been… elsewhere.”

“Wha- why?” Jackson asked. “Is it Felix? You said he was leaving you alone, right? He’s not bothering you is he? I swear I’ll punch that hopeless romantic in the gut if you fail your exams.”

“Please don’t.” Your friends recognized the pitch in your voice; you were crying now.

Lea leaned towards the table and softly spoke. “Y/n, what happened?”

“I- I don’t know.” You shot up from hiding your face in your arms. Your puffy eyes were no stranger to the classmates around you as it was finals season. Lots of tears had fallen from multiple peers in the past week. Thankfully, they paid no mind to your tear-stained face and brushed it off as the stress that came with final exams.

“He’s doing things to my heart, and I can’t explain how hopeful I am that he’s not toying with me.” You reached for your pencil case and pulled out the letter Felix had written a few weeks earlier.

“Oh.” Lea’s reaction mirrored Jackson, whose mouth circled like an ‘o.’ They already suspected your feelings for him long before you had received the note.

“So, do I beat him to a pulp or…” Jackson joked, hoping to make you smile. But his efforts only resulted in his ribs getting elbow jabbed by Lea.

“I don’t know what to do.” Your voice was pulsing with desperate hope from your friends.

“Tell him ‘yes.’ Y/n, next time he asks you, and I’m sure there will be a next time, say ‘yes.’” Lea soothed your anxious mind with the natural honey in her tone. “The only thing you have to lose is your chance with your dream guy.” She winked and turned her gaze to the podium where the professor was introducing the exam.

Her words echoed in your mind. What did you have to lose other than Felix? Your dignity? No. If Felix is the right guy for you, he would strengthen your worth rather than hinder it. As you opened your laptop to the class page, you crossed your fingers, wishing Felix would ask you just once more.

Two days have passed since your last exam. Lea scored higher than you on your overall average. It made sense, and you easily accepted it. You spent hours of mindlessly studying the textbook while Lea actually studied. The two of you, along with Jackson, celebrated the success of your roommate with drinks.

“So,” Jackson began after the clink of your shots. “Has he asked you out yet?”

“No,” you frowned.

“Hey! I thought tonight was about me!” Lea laughed, trying to lift the mood so thick, you could cut it with the wimpy, plastic knives from your college cafeteria.

Jackson had only downed a shot or two; thus, he still was fully aware of his surroundings. So when he saw Felix stride through the local campus bar, he pinched Lea’s shoulder.

“Yah! What do you nee-” Jackson shushed her and guided her face towards Felix’s figure. They turned their attention back to the dim-lit table and met your curious gaze.

Jackson winked. “Don’t worry, y/n. He’ll come for you.” Both he and Lea stood up and walked to the bar for another round of drinks.

You stood up with your brow furrowed, but before you could follow them, you spotted Felix. He looked stunning in his ripped, leather pants and neatly combed hair. The green neon lights above fell on his sculpted face in the most angelic way. You admired him for a while until he moved to dance with a girl. 'With that skin tight dress of hers, how could he fight the urge to grind on her thin hips?' You thought, wishing you had worn something more than a long sleeved crop top and black jeans. Your gaze fell to the floor; you wore your ballet flats. They weren’t the most attractive, but at least they didn’t blister your feet.

You sighed and went after your friends. It had been 2 minutes at most, but you found Lea shamelessly twerking on a peer from her bio class and saw Jackson, long past sober, swiveling on a bar stool and mindlessly ranting to the man next to him about asparagus. The sex driven Lea and rhetorical thinker Jackson had made way out of hibernation. They were drunk.

You hustled to pay for your drinks and exited the crowd. It was cold outside, and you fell victim to the chill in your thin shirt. You didn’t want to flag down a taxi or call an Uber; at this time of night, riding alone with a stranger was not a pill you could swallow. Leaning against the building, you pulled open your contacts. Maybe your landlord would give you a ride home? Before your finger hit the call button, Felix called your name.

Waiting for exams to pass without hearing your voice or seeing your tender eyes up close was absolute hell for Felix. On occasion, he caught you looking at him. But as quickly as he saw you, you bashfully turned away. He kept his word and left you to your studies. Felix knew you cared about your education, and he was the last person who wanted to be in your way. So, he backed off at your excuse of exams.

After the last week of tests, final averages were posted near admissions. Felix eagerly raced to see how well you did. He knew by allowing you the space you needed to ace exams would easily grant you a high grade. But your name wasn’t in the top 100 list. He checked it once, twice, thrice before turning to the longer list of all student results.

Felix’s eyes were glued on the page; he memorized each printed name as he glossed over them looking for yours. When he found it, his head fell from his defeated shoulders. You didn’t do well. In fact, you did better last semester when he had bugged you to go out with him.

Something was wrong, yet he couldn’t understand.

Until he realized, you must’ve been tormented by his flock of admirers. He came to the conclusion that he would permanently give you space; the last thing he wanted was to bring pain to the girl he truly likes.

Felix tried avoiding you by taking different routes to class. If he did see you, he felt guilty and wished there was a way to protect you from the world.

He couldn’t keep you from gracefully invading his mind. Jisung, another playboy at campus, suggested “getting drunk or having sex with another bitch to remove that chick” from his mind. Felix’s nostrils flared when Jisung referred to you as a “chick” when you deserved much more than such a lowlife name. He nearly immobilized Jisung had his friends not stepped in and prevented Felix from further harming the boy.

Directly after throwing punches to his friend, he felt horrible. Felix sprinted away from his peer; it was ironic how he found himself in the campus bar. He downed no more than three shots. He didn’t want to forget you. Yet, his carnal instincts kicked in when Belle approached him.

She wore a mahogany, sheath dress that did wonders for his dry spell. Felix hadn’t been sleeping with anyone since he promised to ask you out after exams. He believed he needed to be faithful and better in order to make you his.

As she began to shake her rear against him, he placed his hands on Belle’s hips. 'Too skinny,' he thought. He would’ve preferred you.

It was like a higher being heard his plea because he saw you seated with your friends. The dim lighting made you look like a fever dream. He longed for you to be his. When he turned back to catch a look at you again, you were gone.

“E-excuse me,” Felix removed Belle’s body from his, but she clung to him like velcro.

She flicked her false lashes at him and grinned. “My place or yours?”

“I need to go.” He pushed her off a little more aggressively than he should and left without another word.

He found you outside, leaning against the club. Alone.

“Y/n!”

A wave of heat flashed through your body when your name fell from his tongue. You eagerly turned to him. Felix ran the short distance between you before urgently pressing his lips on yours.

The kiss was patient, yet you both could sense a deeper passion. Felix pulled your cold body against his and tightened his arms around your waist. Your fingers ruffled the bit of hair that touched the nape of his neck. He pulled his lips away; you quickly whined in protest, but Felix didn’t let you go.

He burrowed his face into your shoulder. You leaned to kiss his head, and he began whispering soft words against your skin causing you to shiver, this time, not from the cold temperature.

“Felix,” you whispered. “I- I can’t understand you.” You giggled breathlessly at him when his face moved back to yours.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? Felix, are you ok?”

“I- fuck. I love you, y/n. And I’m aware that we hardly know each other, but please. I want to learn every precious detail about you. Tell me your favorite way to pass the time on a rainy day. Tell me who taught you how to braid because gosh, when your hair is braided to the side, you make me want to rip out any gawking eyes that look at you. In fact, I won’t hesitate-”

“Felix.” Your voice was quiet. It was his first time hearing you so vulnerable, and it made him want to kiss every part of you. You deserved to be showered with kisses on a daily basis. But he traced his fingertips along the sleeves of your crop top and passionately listened to you.

“Ask me again.”

He smiled and raised a brow, puzzled. “Ask you what?”

You stared at him and fought the urge to kiss the small dimples on his face. You hadn’t noticed them before.

“Will you go out with me, Felix?”

“Fuck. No.” He cursed under his breath. His eyes turned to you when he felt you crumble in his hold. “Wait, shit. No, that’s not what I meant.”

You stepped back with tears brimming your radiant eyes, and it made Felix want to pull you back against him and never, never let you go.

“I wanted to ask you out!”

“You’re mad at me for asking you out!?”

“Yes!”

“Lee Felix, will you ask me out?”

“Y/n, please go out with me!?”

“Goodness yes.” You breathlessly whispered with no hesitation in your voice. He wasted not a second more before pulling you into his arms again. You tightly gripped his shirt; a few tears fell from your lashes. Felix felt them and released you from his embrace. He raised his hands and carefully wiped away every tear. He saw your lip quiver and observed how cold you were.

“Let me drive you home,” he quavered. Felix’s hand was warm in yours; his pinky tangled with yours as he led you to his car.

He knew where your place was. There weren’t many words spoken on the way to your apartment. Both of you were embarrassed and unsure about what to do next.

As he pulled to the building, he shifted to park and turned to you. “I want to take you out tomorrow.”

“I’d like that,” your voice was sunny. You inched closer to him and kissed his lips once more. It was quick, but it was everything you needed to know he was yours. “Good night, Felix.” You stepped out of the car and trudged to the apartment gate.

“Y/n!” Felix stood on the drivers side and yelled. “I need your number!”

You stopped punching the code for the gate to open. “Pick me up here tomorrow at six, and I’ll give it to you!” You playfully hollered back.

“I’ll be here,” he whispered, watching your figure walk through the gates.

“Oh. Em. Gee. Wow! I’m so glad you got him, y/n!” Lea cheered when she finally had some conscience. “Where are you going?”

“Oh, uhm, I’m not sure.” You realized the issue. Not having his number made choosing the perfect outfit harder. 'Shouldn’t have played hard to get,' you thought.

“Knowing him,” Lea stepped for your closet. “He’ll probably take you somewhere nice. Like a concert, fancy restaurant, or art exhibit. Since he’s head over heels in love with you.” She pulled a black velvet dress off its hanger and handed it to you. “Oh! Here.” She tossed you some sheer, black tights as well.

“I hope you’re right,” you giggled and went to change.

Lea adored the gown and begged to straighten your hair; she thought it looked best with your outfit. Once straight, she tied your hair into a low ponytail. She picked some dangly earrings for you to wear in addition to a silver bracelet. You felt like an actress being prepped for a scene. Lea was definitely the stylist between the two of you.

Your roommate stood by the window as it was nearing 6:00. You sat nervously on the couch, praying your outfit was right.

“He’s here.”

With a shaky sigh, you slipped on your shoes and went to the door. “Wish me luck.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, y/n. You’ve made an impression of Felix, one so strong he’s stopped sleeping around.” She walked over to straighten the collar of your coat before continuing. “Plus, if anything does happen-- but I highly doubt he’ll be a jerk to you-- remember, Jackson’s offer to beat him up still stands.”

You giggled in unison before hugging her and heading past the threshold.

What a sight you were. As you stepped out the apartment gates, his breath hitched. You bloomed in the evening fog. He hustled to the passenger door and eagerly opened it for you.

You paused before getting in. “Does my outfit fit the occasion?” You asked nervously.

“Yes; it’s perfect.” He charmed.

Felix drove away. His car was warm, and it calmed your nerves. You kept stealing glances at his profile, noticing the kisses of the sun on his cheeks and nose. His lips were highly alluring and since last night, you wanted nothing more than to kiss him again.

The ride was quiet. Felix played some soft r&b music in the background. At every traffic light, he turned to you and took your hand in his. He raised it to his lips and kissed the back of your hand; his eyes remained locked with yours, causing you to buzz with delight.

“We’re here.”

He shifted to park before stepping to your side and opening the door. You stood on the curb and admired the restaurant while Felix paid the parking meter. Dilettante was one of the finest restaurants in town. You had never been; it was far too expensive. The thought puddled in your stomach. Felix brought you to a highly exquisite restaurant on the first date.

“Felix.”

He hummed. Finished with the meter, he latched your arm with his and strolled to the building. “Yes?”

“This is expensive. Are you sure we should eat here? We can always go to Olive Garden or-”

“Y/n.” Felix paused and slipped his hand in yours. “This is the only place you deserve for a first date.”

Your cheeks darkened at his comment when he started up to the door. “Mia, your finest table please," he winked. The receptionist led you to a candle lit corner booth. She placed the menus on the surface: “Your server will be here shortly.” Mia return the wink and strolled back to the front.

Felix obviously knew the girl. You removed your oatmeal coat and sat down. Felix sat across from you. You leaned in and whispered, “Have you slept with her?”

He laughed. He laughed at you. You chuckled nervously, unsure of why you were laughing. “Mia’s my cousin.”

Shoot.

“Your cousin?”

“Hmm,” he glanced down and played with his wrist watch. “My family owns this restaurant.” You were not expecting that. “We get to eat here for free-”

“So, I’m a free meal?”

“What? No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” His head snapped up when you spoke. His hands reached across the table and held to yours. “I’ve actually never brought a girl here.” He mumbled while his thumb caressed your skin.

“I wasn’t even expecting the meal to be free-- I mean, I was expecting a discount, but I think my family is excited for me to finally stop sleeping around and bring someone here.”

You nodded in understanding. Your hands played with his. “Felix, you said you didn’t want to be tied down…”

“That was before I met you.” That smile of his could light up the entire restaurant.

You didn’t get to respond right away; a server came and took your drink order. He placed a basket of fresh bread on the surface and slid a platter of sweet butter alongside. You both ordered water and the server returned quickly with your drinks in hand.

“Have you decided on something to order?”

“Gosh, you’ve hardly given us time to decide, Kang.” Felix sneered and rolled his eyes.

“Right, yes. Of course. Sorry, sir.” The boy, around your age if not younger, fearfully backed away. Felix hung his head in shame when the server scurried away.

You held his hands in your; you stopped playing with them and held them still. “Lix-”

“I know, I know. I shouldn’t have snapped at him.” He raised his gaze to yours. He shuffled closer to you-- the booth made it easy for him to melt at your side so quickly-- and linked his fingers in yours once more. He tucked a wisp of hair behind your ear and kissed your neck. “I just want tonight to be perfect,” Felix breathed into your skin before sitting upright again.

You didn’t know what to say. He kept leaving you breathless; you could hear your heart pounding louder now that he was closer to you. And when his palm slid to your thigh in a non-sensual way, you prayed he wouldn’t hear how harshly your heart pounded against your rib cage.

"This isn't the best table here," he commented upon seeing your flustered state.

"We don't need to move tables. This is fine," you assured.

"I made sure Mia reserved this table. It wasn't hard; no likes sitting in the back corner anyways. But I like it here. I can kiss you without any bothersome stares."

Felix reached for a piece of bread and spread some butter on it before passing it to you. 'What a gentlemen,' you reminded yourself for the nth time this evening.

You took a sip of water after finishing the dough and spoke, “What’s the best meal here?”

“The alfredo.” He didn’t hesitate at all, and he reached for the menu to show you the different options. “My favorite is the regular chicken, but they're all decent.”

“I’ll have a chicken fettuccine alfredo then,” you giggled and swiped a hair out of his eye.

The things you did to him caused red to tickle his cheeks.

A different waiter came back and took your order. Felix explained the kid who previously served you was a distant, younger cousin and that they weren’t on the best of terms. You didn’t pry.

“Y/n?”

“Hm?”

Felix bit his lip gently before continuing, “What happened to your finals?”

“Oh, that.” You laughed deeply.

“Were there more posts like the one on Instagram or have people been bothering you?”

“No. Well, only you.” You smiled, and when you saw his clueless face, you added: “I couldn’t really study because I kept thinking of you.”

“I’m glad it was because of me. I don’t know what I would’ve done if students had been hurting you,” he admitted and leaned a little closer to your warmth, blushing.

He watched as you tried to refold the cloth napkin into its original swan origami. And when he took his and instantly folded it back, an engaging conversation about origami fortune tellers and puppets took place. Apparently, Felix was in his 5th grade talent show with a few of his buddies. They put on a Star Wars puppet show made with construction paper. The talent show gave no winners, but Felix was certain they would’ve won.

“Who would’ve known you, the mysterious campus bad boy, was into arts and crafts,” you giggled delicately at him.

“Am I still a bad boy in your eyes?”

“No!” Your response was swifter than intended. “Sorry that was a poor choice of words. You were the campus bad boy, but now you’re all mine.” You pressed against his torso and kissed his lips.

“You changed me, y/n.” Felix began and paused his words when the plates of pasta arrived. “I found myself desperate for you. So desperate. I couldn’t imagine being with anyone but you. I stopped jumping from bed to bed a while ago; I hoped it would prove myself to you. Because y/n, I want to be tied down with you for the rest of my life.”

It occurred to him that you hadn’t stopped looking at him since he began speaking. You hadn’t even touched your plate yet.

“Stop staring at me,” he blushed.

You moved your eyes to the cuisine and twirled the pasta. “I’m so in love with you I don’t think that’s possible.”

Felix’s fork clinked onto the ceramic plate. He faced you and met your gaze.

“Wait, was that too soon? I didn’t mean to offend-”

You couldn’t finish your apology with his breath dangerously close to your lips. “I love you, too.”

His lips were creamy and warm when they pressed into yours; they tasted like alfredo sauce. His pinky maneuvered its way to lock with yours while the other hand pulled you deeper into the kiss. He moved away after ensuring your pinky finger was connected with his.

Felix admired how dazed you looked after just one kiss. He didn’t notice it last night, but then again, that was the first kiss you had shared together. You opened your doe eyes at him, and he smirked.

“I’ll kiss you later. Eat your food.” He bent over his plate and continued to eat. You did the same. “How does it taste?” Felix asked, confident it would meet your expectations.

“It’s delicious,” you faced to him and smiled. Your pinky gave his a loving squeeze. “But…”

His eyes widened slightly. “But…?”

“The sauce tasted better on your lips.”

You pivoted back to your dish; you tucked that stray hair back behind your ear and bit your lips.

Felix looked down at his plate and pierced his lips together as he grinned. “You really are perfect,” he breathed, before twirling another spoonful of pasta into his mouth.

“Do you know how to make this?” You confidently inquired.

“I do,” he hummed.

“This is the best fettuccine alfredo I’ve ever had, and having a boyfriend who can make it-- you’re truly the love of my life.” Although you said it in a teasing way, you meant it, and Felix knew you meant it.

Despite not knowing each other for long, being in his presence made you feel loved and safe. And Felix vowed to do just that.

#kpop scenarios #kpop imagines #kpop fluff #kpop fic #stray kids #stray kids felix #skz felix #stray kids scenarios #the pasta chronicles

[ladyideal]

An Eye for Yours

Pairing: Leonard McCoy x Reader

Word Count: 2717

Warning: 3 curse words, brief description of injury, lots of cute fluff

Summary: You were once a naive child in believing in soulmates. You are not naive now, but you still keep the hope of finding yours one day. Hurting yourself accidentally down in Engineering lands you in the hot seat under Doctor McCoy’s hazel eyes. Couple days later, Leonard finds himself confronted about his appearance and hurries off to find you.

A/n: So credit to @mythologyandwriting for giving me this Soulmate AU idea. When yours and your soulmate’s eyes meet, one eye changes to one of the other’s eye color. I thought it was a cool concept, so here ya go.

Love. 

A concept so fascinating that there was no encompassing definition of it. A concept that many longed for, but weren’t always received. You knew this your entire life. Your father had explained it many, many times to you when you were still a kid and asked why he had mismatching eye colors. 

He was proud, and in love, was how he had always started the explanation. Soulmates, he continued, when you found your soulmate, you and them take the other’s eye color. In his arms, you would clap happily and wish that you would be able to find the same happiness your parents had found.  

You wanted your own, and who wouldn’t? It was a gift from the universe to find the perfect one, the better half to yours, the second half to complete your soul. 

However, the universe wasn’t always kind. 

As seasons passed, you grew up, steadily breaking out of your former shell as a naive child. There were stories that many gave up on finding their one, and settled with what was second best. Your grandparents were like that, but your parents found true love. So, you were determined. You’d looked high and low, to other countries, and the occasional trips to other Federation planets.  

As the years went by and life went on, the notion of finding your soulmate was tempered into a more moderate view. You needed to be able to succeed in life first, be independent, and not let some foolish idea of something more sway you.

  Middle school, high school, and finally made a last ditch application into Starfleet Academy. You graduated from the academy after four years, and landed yourself on another Federation planet for the first two years as an engineer specializing in improving the warp core and antimatter. 

You caught a break as you transferred out, landing yourself onto the Enterprise. Being out in the void would test your skills, and you enjoyed having that challenge of being kept on your toes. You could take on more projects aboard a ship, and best of all, you could meet new people.

That was two years ago.

You leaned against one of the nearest consoles down in one of the deeper Engineering levels, and wiped your sweat with the back of a dirtied hand. Consoles were nothing, unless they were toyed previously by other Ensigns and made it even worse than before.

You scowled, taking a deep breath. It was a couple minutes into Gamma and your relief was a no show again for the third time in a row in the same damn week. Normally you weren’t one to complain. More work was nice occasionally, it was far better than laying in bed and unable to sleep half the time. 

“Y/N!” Scotty called from up above. 

“Aye, Scotty, what’s up?” You crane your neck upward in an effort to get a better view of him. 

“Onslet not here for ye?” 

“He still didn’t show up,” You rolled your eyes, pushing away from the console. “But I can’t leave you a member short.”

Scotty laughed. “I’ll see where that lad has gone to. Thank ye for staying. Drinks on me tomorrow.”

You shook your head, but turned around and faced the console once again. 

“What the hell did she do to you?” You mumbled to yourself, sliding again once under to continue working on the damn console. New ensigns were almost in constant trouble one way or another. So much so that medical made it a habit to complain every time yet another red shirt went in for burns or scrapes or any work related injuries.

It wasn’t only the nurses that complained, even the doctors did too. Most of the time it was Doctor McCoy that did the grumbling allowed. You couldn’t blame him though. If you were a doctor aboard a starship, you would be grumbling at everyone around you.

 You’d never met the guy, as Doctor M’Benga was the one you were assigned to, early on.The CMO’s reputation preceded him as one of the best doctors, and was regarded highly in the medical field. He was rumored to be easy on the eyes, dark haired, tall, broad shouldered, and prickly like a porcupine but cared deeply for those close to him.

It was a shame that you’ve never met him before. Being on two opposite ends of the work shifts, you’d never gotten a chance to really meet the guy. Oh well. Life could be cruel that way. 

Shaking your head, you focused back on the damned console again. If the wires refused to bend, you would have to start back on square one, forcing you to replicate spare parts again. 

What a pain in the ass.

Couple hours ticked by after that brief conversation with your superior. By the looks of it, you were going to be given Ensign Onslet’s pay for not showing up to work. It was fine, long as you could still get Alpha off to get some shut eye after working another sixteen hour shift. 

“Come on, come on,” You chanted, desperately encouraging the wires to come close enough so you could finally solder them, and finally be done with the damn ensign job. Why you took that work order on was another reason. It was supposed to be easy, and you could help clean the list after-.

“Ouch!” You hissed, dropping the soldering iron beside you when you touched the heated section of it. With barely any lighting under the console, you inspected the injury with a frown. Drops of blood dripped out, and immediately blisters were starting to form on the burned portion of your fingertips. 

“Goddamn,” You mumbled, putting your tools aside and out of harm's way. Tucking the wires safely away, you hand accidentally strayed onto the live wire of the console next to you, earning yourself another nasty electrical burn. To add to your injuries, you bumped your head as you slid out. 

It was starting to look like a long work day. 

“Ye alright there, Y/N? If you’re injured, go to the medbay. I don’t want ye bleeding all over the floors, or Doctor McCoy will have my head,” Scotty called again, scrutinizing at you from the other side of the floor now. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll go,” You reluctantly answered. Cradling your injured hand against your body, you stepped into the turbolift and keyed your destination in. Stepping into the medbay, you greeted the nurse as you signed in. 

It was the Gamma shift, and what’s left was a mere skeleton crew. Most of the crew were on Alpha or Beta, and only a handful were required to be on duty during the late night hours. 

“I’ll have a doctor see you,” The nurse led you to a nearby biobed, and went off in search of a doctor. Rather resigned to your fate, you set on the edge of the biobed and faced the entrance of the medbay, swinging your legs restlessly as you waited. When you heard footsteps approaching, you frowned down at your injury. 

“Hey, Doctor M’Benga,” You greeted.

“Guess again, darlin’,” An unfamiliar voice drawled from behind. You jerked your head back up at the sound, and turned to face the stranger.

If you weren’t in the hot seat, you would have taken a photo of how picture perfect the scene was. Your mouth was slightly opened in a small “o”, your eyes widened in surprise, and your eyebrows shot up. 

“I-I-I’m sorry, Doctor McCoy. I see Doctor M’Benga,” You recovered as soon as you could, blood pooling in your cheeks at your obvious embarrassment. 

Doctor McCoy smirked. “Doctor M’Benga was dead on his feet after Beta, so I volunteered to take his shift.” He looked down at your injured hand. “How did this happen?”

Feeling like you were going to die of embarrassment for the rest of the night, you told him how you got your injuries. As you rattled off the events, the doctor gently took your hand to examine it closely for himself. 

“Nothin’ but some time with the dermal regen and some tests won’t solve,” He spoke, grabbing the tools on a nearby tray to start the procedure. “What I don’t understand is why all you engineers enjoy stickin’ your nose into trouble.”

You bristled, now fully understanding where the rumors were coming from. “I’ll have you understand, Doctor McCoy. I don’t get injured very much often. I’m not like the others that blatantly have no regards to their well being.”

The doctor snorted in disappointment. “Then darlin’, what do you call this?”

“An accident,” You replied, huffing your answer out. He glanced up at you, and caught your curious gaze at him. His eyes were pretty. Hazel, but mixed with flecks of gold and green swirling around his irises. You had to admit, it reminded you of your mother’s. Your father had green eyes, and your mother’s hazel also. 

His was way prettier.

“See somethin’ you like, darlin’?” The doctor drawled again, raising that damn eyebrow of his; another source of never ending complaints from your coworkers.

“Sorry,” You mumbled, dropping your gaze. Looking away, you let the doctor work in peace. 

Before long, he set the regen down, and inspected his work for a brief moment. “Good as new again. If it still bothers you in a couple days, come back down and let Doctor M’Benga give you something for the pain. I’ll sign you back on for duty.”

You brightened up at his words, glad that he was done and could return to work. You were about to push yourself off the biobed when a hand on your shoulder stopped you. Following the hand, you looked back up at the doctor expectantly.

“Do me a favor darlin’. Tell Mister Scott to take better care of his engineers,” Leonard spoke, scowling once more. “I swear, another day can’t go by without somethin’ down there happenin’ and injurin’ half the crew again.”

Doing your best to keep a straight face on, you nodded and assured him that you would relay the message to your superior. Looking satisfied with the answer, he bid you goodnight and let you go free back to work. After thanking him for his work, you scurried back down to Engineering.

A chance encounter with the famous doctor, but you didn’t linger much on the thought. 

 A couple days went by, and Leonard found himself catching odd glances at him from his nurses.At first, he’d though nothing about it. He would never admit to anyone that he enjoyed having his nose to the grindstone. Because of that, he was always tired after work and wasn’t 100% on top of his appearances at times. It wasn’t until he had enough of the staring that he finally voiced his displeasure about the unwanted attention.

During a surprisingly slow beta shift, he leaned against the nurse’s station. On the upside, no one was getting hurt, and even the Captain seemed to be keeping himself out of trouble. Looking up from his head nurse’s PADD, he groaned when he caught Christine’s gaze on him.

“You too?” He grumbled.

“No disrespect, Leonard,” Chris started slowly, turning her full attention to the doctor in front of her. “But you look a little different from before.”

“I look fine, Chris. Nothing out of the ordinary,” Leonard huffed, crossing his arms across his chest. 

“No no, not that,” His head nurse leaned in, narrowing her eyes as she examined him better. “I think it’s your eyes. Did you look into a mirror recently?”

The doctor merely shook his head no,

“Your left eye is greener than the right. I didn’t notice it till a few days ago. I thought it was just the lights. Are you sick or did you…?” She trailed off. 

Leonard stared at her, gears turning at her implication. No, he had given up on finding his soulmate when he was younger. It was the reason why he fell in love with Jocelyn. Although his eyes didn’t change, he still gave the relationship a shot. Yet, after the messy divorce when Jocelyn found her soulmate, he refused to believe that there was any hope left for him. 

And now.

“I can’t do this again, Chris,” The doctor breathed out. “I’m old, and they won’t-.”

“So you do know who they are. You’ve just met them, haven’t you?” His head nurse threw his trademark smirk back at him. “It must have been during Gamma shift when you took over for Geoff. If you don’t give it a chance, you will never find out.”

It took a little more convincing, but eventually Leonard nodded in defeat. “I’ll be back.”

“No need. I’m sure Doctor M’Benga and I can handle what’s left of the Beta. I’ll be sure to call you if anything arises.”

With that, Christine shooed him out of his own medbay with a knowing glint in her eyes. 

Instantly, he knew who his soulmate was. The only person that he’d met with green eyes in just a mere few days ago, was only you. You were the only one that held the luscious, vibrant forest green within your eyes. Admittedly, he was drawn to them when you first stepped in those nights ago. When he held your gaze then, he enjoyed the flecks of gold within.

“Mister Scott!” Leonard bellowed when he reached Engineering.

“Aye, Doctor McCoy,” Scotty spoke from above, tethered on a rope with a screwdriver in his hands. 

“Where is Y/N? I would like to have a word,” The doctor scowled up at the chief engineer.

“Y/N, front and center!” Scotty yelled.

“What, Scotty? I’m busy here trying to fix these damn consoles you wanted me to do,” You shouted, grumbling wordlessly from under a console across the deck.

“Doctor McCoy wants to have a talk with ya,” The Chief Engineer continued. 

You frowned. After the brief visit to the medbay, your hand was feeling better, and back to normal. Scotty had ordered you to go to bed right after you got back, saying that he could get the console fixed himself. After that, the days blurred into one another once again. Your routine was hurried. Wake up, shower, eat, work, sleep. As long as you were mostly presentable, you didn’t give your appearance much of a thought. 

“Y/N.” Doctor McCoy’s voice was right next to the consoles you were working on, and you slightly jumped at the sudden voice.

“Ow,” You grumbled, rubbing the spot on your head where you’d lightly banged on it. Sliding out from down under, you glared up at him. “Hi. What can I do for-.”

You trailed off as you recognized your iris color in one of his. Your jaws promptly slacken once you realized that he was your soulmate. 

“So it’s true,” The doctor murmured, crouching down and gently wiping away the dirt on your face. “It is you.”

“Me?” You breathed out, quietly savoring his warm, big hands on your cheek,

“Have you not checked the mirror after that night?” Leonard asked, helping you up into a standing position.

“I-uh no,” You furiously wracked your brain to get an answer out. “I’ve been busy with a couple long shifts, Doctor McCoy.” 

“Call me Leonard, darlin’,” He smirked at your amazement. “You have beautiful eyes, Y/N. My hazel one sure matches up to your green. A little bit of gold and brown in them too.”

You blushed again. “Yes, from my mom’s. The green’s from my dad.”

A look of wonder crossed his face as he lost himself within your eyes. After a moment, he shook his head and cleared his throat.

“Would you like to have dinner with me? I’m sure Mister Scott over there wouldn’t mind me stealin’ you away.”

Scotty made an exaggerated show of gagging at the promise of future PDA. “Go, I’ll have Lieutenant Gails take the rest of yer shift, Y/N.”

Giving Leonard a tentative grin, you nodded. “I would love to get to know you better, Leonard.”

Seeing you grin, he smiled back. “Let’s get outta here, Y/N.” 

You chuckled, but followed him towards the turbolift and into the next chapter of your life with a soulmate.

Star Trek Tags: @mournthewicked (Join the taglist!)

#leonard mccoy #leonard bones mccoy #leonard mccoy x reader #bones x reader #star trek #star trek aos #deb writes #not 4am I promise #only 3am

[hookaroo]

Vocivore, Ltd. (30 of 40?)

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging @ouatwinterwhump, @killian-whump, @sancocnutclub, @killianjonesownsmyheart1, and @courtorderedcake <3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL COVER ART BY @cocohook38 HERE!!!!!******

***Chapter 12 animation and art that will absolutely astound you!!!**********

***LETHAL Chapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!!    CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*****AMAZING AND ALSO HEARTBREAKING COVER ART!!!!! MY POOR BOY, HELPLESS AND SCREAMING WHILE HE SLOWLY LOSES HIS GRIP ON REALITY… D: COCOHOOK38 IS TRYING TO KILL US ALL!!!!*************

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

Present (Friday, continued)...

Something tugged gently on a loose thread protruding from the hem of Killian’s sackcloth tunic. Too disoriented to react, he lay still, docile and apathetic. The tugging grew more insistent, accompanied by a scrabbling flutter that showered debris against the back of his thigh. Killian snarled and shifted his bottom leg, which he immediately regretted as a million sore places awoke into blistering screams. His eyes watered as he dragged them open.

The first thing he saw was the iron fence surrounding Torture Cathedral. He was on his side, lying not three steps from the front gate, the ornate building behind him but much too close for comfort. And he could not move his head for some reason. What time was it? What day, even? What was he doing collapsed on the pathway, alone?

Alone except for the blasted tugging, which resumed after pain had thwarted his attempts to move.

It couldn’t be his Master, despite the prickle of horror that raced up his spine when an eddying breeze tickled his upper legs. That creature was much too big to be hidden from view, even with the current limitations to his visual field.

Wasn’t it?

An instant of panic gave Killian enough adrenaline to roll onto his back, and he searched wildly for any sign of armored claw or slimy, suckered tentacle. Instead, a terrified pigeon launched itself into the air, leaving several feathers behind in its haste to escape.

Killian winced as he tried to catch his breath. Bolts of stabbing fire skewered his neck, drowning out all other complaints for an untraceable amount of time. That was definitely new, but he was hesitant to reach up and explore its source for fear of worsening the pain. Instead, he tried to focus elsewhere, to distract himself from one area of agony by rediscovering others. Not an ideal solution, by any means.

Half of his body now lay on loose, jagged gravel, including his practically severed foot, and it provided a less-than-comfortable surface for a rest. Dirt and rock particles ground against haphazardly tended wounds, further soiling the bandages and likely disturbing the fragile clots that had formed overnight. Still, were it not for the danger of being discovered and set upon by a nearby Vocivore at any moment, Killian probably would have borne the discomfort and allowed himself to remain on top of the rocks until he felt strong enough to move again.

But his Master would not remain satiated for long. Reluctantly, Killian braced for more anguish before heaving himself up, forced to put weight on both arms in spite of the customary, excruciating zing from the stake through his wrist. The simple act of holding his head upright brought tears to his eyes as scalding hot lances seemed to burrow deeper into throbbing neck muscles with every beat of his heart. He breathed through his teeth. In. Out. In. Out. In… Killian dared not reach up. Even the lone wisp of air stirring the sweat-drenched clumps of hair on his forehead was too much pressure against the collar of affliction.

His damaged neck. A new soreness in his jaw. Raw, stinging cracks in the corners of his mouth. Woven together, these individual elements painted a hazy picture of his previous Session with his Master. There had been a recording device, and more tortures, and the Vocivore had been too excited and preoccupied to even undress him like it normally did, and Killian had nearly lost himself forever…

He must have passed out on the path. He’d resolved not to; he had important things to do and very little time to get them accomplished. Less, now that some undetermined number of minutes or even hours had passed while he swooned the day away. Bloody hell.

His pain didn’t matter. Weakness didn’t matter. He had to go.

The climb to an upright position was like a week-long expedition up a mountain peak and took just as much of his strength. Killian surprised himself by managing to suppress most noises loud enough to attract his Master’s attention, though by the time he swayed on unsteady feet, hunched over and clutching at the nearest fence post, tears were running freely down his cheeks and his chest was tight with imprisoned sobs.

Very slowly, Killian straightened, screwed his eyes shut for a brief moment more, and pulled a controlled, rallying breath. He took one step forward, refusing to acknowledge the splitting hurt from his impaired ankle, and skirted the rusted gate that guarded the limits of the church property.

He could follow the fence for a fair distance, using it as support and guide while he prayed for enough strength to reach his ultimate destination. He limped the first three steps. No sound or movement came from the direction of the church; Killian decided to take that as an encouraging sign. As long as his Master was busy with its project, he would have time.

Swan would need time, too. A warning.

He lifted his bandaged arm, quietly groaning as he brought the hated wrist ring up toward his face. Though no living soul was in plain sight, there was always the possibility of someone monitoring him through the collar camera, so he had to keep the message brief and cryptic, meaningful only to the one person guaranteed to be listening.

“Weigh anchor.”

*****

Killian’s first stop: the armory.

He’d been there once before, in preparation for his mission to Storybrooke just days earlier. The blessedly short distance between the church and the shop-turned-weapons-storage-facility was still a struggle in his weakened state and on an ankle that would only barely take his weight. He was puffing and dizzy by the time he reached the doorway.

One guard huddled on the stoop, resting against the wall, apparently asleep. With the total obedience of each of the Master’s minions, the position was mostly formality and likely did not see much action. The man hardly stirred at Killian’s approach, and he lapsed into soundless unconsciousness at the first blow. Killian took a moment to recover his balance, focusing on the pain and nothing else. If his Master sensed relief, triumph, or excitement, it may send others to investigate. And Killian had to get to the video room first.

A spear would be ideal. No need to get within range of the monster’s tentacles. But it would be too cumbersome to carry with him and more likely to attract attention. So Killian selected a fairly well-maintained sword and two daggers. The latter he tucked into a bandage around his thigh; the sword he secured against his body, holding it carefully under his left arm. Then he hobbled back out to the street, heading for the church’s side entrance.

*****

“Okay,” said Emma at last. “Be ready to hit play on all those videos. Just not yet. We don’t want to give the game away before Killian is in position. And… it’s probably best to do it as simultaneously as possible.”

Jones nodded, still unclear on the actual plan, but he stayed quiet and checked again that the cursor on each computer hovered over the play button. Emma had assigned him four screens; she would cover the other five. After some hesitation, Emma removed her hidden earpiece, laying that and her phone on the desk between two laptops. She fiddled with some settings on the phone, raised the volume to maximum, and over the faint rustling sounds now emanating from its speaker, she said,

“The transmitter is actually picked up by my phone. We had the feed routed to the earpiece to keep it secret and more convenient for me.” She paused, listening, and Jones could discern quiet, ragged breaths and the rhythmic thud of footsteps. “Now you can hear what’s going on, and when he gives the signal.”

Signal for what?

“And… it was Rumplestiltskin who helped set up the transmitter? The same one who saved my life, but earlier in his timeline?”

“Uh huh.” She displayed a brief flash of resentment. “He still has a ways to go before he gets to where he eventually ends up.”

Jones knew she was referring to the gleeful and excessive stabbing of her husband for the staged abduction. “As long as he still gets there, I think I can forgive a few missteps along the way.”

Emma rolled her eyes but agreed. “He must. Otherwise, how are you still here?”

The rustling noises emanating from her phone increased in intensity, and her eyes dropped automatically to the device, as if it would provide interpretation of the sounds on its dark, impassive screen. Jones could not imagine the stress of the past month, hearing such awful things with only her imagination to fill in the grisly details.

“It sounds different,” she murmured.

“How so?”

“Before, things were kind of muted, and I could hear his heartbeat. Now, sounds are sharper, and that rustling is new… I think he must have dug it out of his shoulder.”

Jones watched her face, deep in contemplation. “And that’s why you think he may not be planning on getting out?”

She swallowed hard. “If he… thinks he’s not gonna survive this… he would want us to still have whatever advantage we could get. He probably plans to leave the transmitter in the... the torture chamber.”

“Where the Master spends most of its time,” Jones concluded. He could follow the thought process, and it made sense. “That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s given up, just that he wants to be prepared for all eventualities.”

Any reply she may have had was cut off by action from the transmitter: the creak of a door, a startled exclamation, and definite sounds of a struggle.

And it was impossible to tell who was winning.

#ouat fanfiction #killian jones #emma swan #wish realm killian #pain #confusion #exertion #the plan is set in motion #Vocivore ltd

[fanfic-scribbles]

13 Kisses (And One To Grow On)

A/N: Took these kiss prompts from a few lists I’ve found and collected over time. Removed some and added others.

Summary: While browsing mindlessly one day, you stumble across a list of the most underrated places to be kissed. Gabriel decides to test them out. For science.

Quick facts: Romance fic – Gabriel/Reader – Established relationship

Warnings: Implied smut/sexytimes, some heated intimacy, language, fluff

Words: 4242

  1. Forehead

It’s a boring day. Normally that’s fine –a day without death is a respite– but everyone is gone and you are bored. Dean and Sam are in town getting car parts and groceries, respectively, Gabriel is busy, Castiel is who-the-hell-knows where, and you can only go to the shooting range so much before it stops being practice and starts becoming a waste of ammo.

You frown when you think of what Gabriel might be getting up to. It figures that you finally get a day (and the entire bunker!) all to yourself and your boyfriend is hopelessly busy. At least you know he’s actually busy and not just blowing you off to torment some schmuck. But still.

“Hey sugar,” Gabriel says from behind you and crosses his arms loosely over your chest as he leans in.

“Gabriel!” You lean back and relax into your angel. “I thought you were busy today.”

“Still am,” he says. “But I heard you calling for me and I wanted to check in.”

“Oh.” Oops. “Sorry.” Prayer is, you have learned, a very loose concept and when you have a connection with an angel it unravels even more.

“I don’t mind.” He rests his head on your shoulder and reads out loud from your computer. “‘The Thirteen Most Underrated Kisses’.”

You snort and look for what he sees. It figures that he’d find some crappy Cosmo-adjacent article you weren’t even reading. But it sounds amusing so you click the link and start skimming. “It’s…cute, I guess.”

Gabriel chuckles in your ear. You turn to smile at him. “Speaking of kisses– can I get one before you leave?”

His grin is impish at best and you have the sense to be slightly worried. ‘Slightly’ because you know that Gabriel will never hurt you. ‘Worried’ because, well, he’s still Gabriel.

Even so, you expect a kiss on your lips. You don’t expect him to move up your face and press a firm smooch to your forehead. Even as he pulls back there’s a feeling, almost like an indentation, left on your skin. “You didn’t–” You look at the list and, sure enough, ‘Forehead’ is number one. You laugh. “You little bastard.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way,” he says, so obviously pleased with himself.

“You know it,” you say and, because two can play at that game, you kiss his forehead. “I’ll see you soon?”

“You can’t keep me away. Just ask Dean.” He winks and is gone, leaving you with the lingering feeling of his lips on your skin. You smile and actually start to relax for the first time all day. Maybe it is a little underrated.

  2. Cheek

You’re at a diner with Sam and Dean when someone suddenly appears on the bench next to you. You smile as Dean rolls his eyes and leans his head back like this day is just the worst. Only one person can make Dean so annoyed by their mere presence.

“Hey Sweet Thing,” Gabriel says and presses a kiss to your cheek. Again, there’s the feel of lips left behind and you giggle and touch it.

“Oh jeeze, knock it off you two. Some of us need to eat,” Dean says and Sam shakes his head. He hasn’t quite come around to Gabriel yet but at least he’s trying.

“Well you better settle your own stomach, because some of us don’t care,” you say and wrap your arm around Gabriel’s back. Dean fake-retches and you laugh, and when you steal a look at Gabriel as your food arrives you catch him smiling brightly at you.

   3. Back of the Hand.

“You guys okay?” you ask Sam and Dean.

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Dean grumbles and Sam groans. You sigh. Well, at least they’re alive. Dean is leaning on the trunk, Sam is sitting with his back against the wheel, and you’re kneeling on the ground, spent. Gabriel is admiring his work– his work being a currently burning abandoned farmhouse. You can’t help but think how nice he looks in the glow of the fire, hair lightly blowing in the wind.

He flashes you a grin and you roll your eyes. “You better not be in my head,” you grumble without any real anger.

“I don’t have to. I can just tell by the way you look at me,” he says with a wink and leans over, hand stretched towards you. You’re not sure you’re ready to get up yet but you take the offer anyway. But he doesn’t yank you to your feet. Energy fills you slowly and your aches and pains fade away.

Only after you’re back to normal does Gabriel help you up. “Thanks Gabe,” you say and press a quick kiss to his lips. He smirks and pulls your hand up for a kiss. You’re starting to get used to the tingling that comes with these strangely purposeful kisses.

“Anytime, Sugarplum.”

   4. Shoulder

It’s storming outside. The thunder has calmed down a bit but you know it’s still pouring. You’re alone in the library, putting away books, and just being…lonely. Sam and Dean are around, you could probably have their company if you really want it, but you can’t have the company you want the most.

You stop in the middle of pushing a book into place to swear at yourself. You knew you wouldn’t get Gabriel 24/7 when you both entered this relationship. And honestly, you’re still okay with that. Gabriel all day every day is something no one but Gabriel can handle. Still, right now you can’t help but miss him. It’s just one of those days.

Arms wrap around you and you gasp. Gabe is quiet. Too quiet. “I– crap, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to–”

“Shh.” He holds you close and you can feel his breath on your neck, in your ear. “I kinda think I missed you too.”

You smile. It’s about as close to real emotion that Gabriel can express. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder blade and there’s the newly-familiar feeling of his lips lingering. Even as he speaks it feels like he’s still kissing you. “I’ll see you soon, Cupcake.”

“Are you gonna bring a new nickname every time you come around?” you can’t help but joke.

He chuckles into your skin, chasing a chill up the back of your neck. “I’ll do my best, Sugarlump.”

You laugh. “Okay,” you say, and you feel it. Even when he’s gone you can shut your eyes and it’s like he’s still there. These kisses are starting to feel like promises and, sappy as it sounds, you don’t mind that at all.

   5. Fingertips

“Ow, fuck!” you hiss and slide the hot tray of fresh-out-of-the-oven cupcakes onto the counter before going to the sink.

You wait as the cold water runs over the burn and you appraise your work from a distance. Three trays of cupcakes and they all look really good. You don’t bake often but it seemed better to have a vehicle for that amazing-looking frosting you just had to buy.

And if there was an extra tub of it just lying around that maybe made its way to your room accompanied by a spoon…well…

“Oh Sugarlips; what happened?”

You snort. “Too bad you already used ‘Cupcake’, isn’t it?”

Gabriel sidles up next to you and wraps an arm around your waist. “Nah. That’d be too easy.”

“Hm.” You turn off the faucet and pat your finger dry to find a blister. “Damn it. It just had to be my trigger finger…”

“Allow me,” Gabriel says and steals your hand. When he presses his lips very deliberately to your finger you smile because by now you know what’s coming.

But the tingling sensation moves down your finger to pool in the base of your palm and your breath hitches. Gabriel then moves to the next finger, and the feeling repeats. He moves his way across your digits, thumb and all, and when he holds up your other hand you realize you’re staring and barely breathing. But Gabriel pays complete attention only to his self-assigned task, shutting his eyes with each kiss, like every single one is a blessing.

At the end of it your heart is beating faster and you have to catch your breath. The intimacy is suddenly too much and you scramble to find your footing. You wiggle your fingers, noting how heavy they feel, and you exhale a breathless laugh. “Really? You had to do all of them?”

Gabriel grins, winks, and disappears.

Once you have yourself under control you rub your hands together to ease the feeling left behind. Then you roll your eyes, huff, and turn back to the counter. And freeze.

“Gabriel you little shit BRING BACK MY FROSTING!”

   6. Collarbone

You are going to finish this book.

…Well, if you’re being honest with yourself, it probably won't happen tonight like you had intended. But you have so little left to get through and it’s still early…ish. You're not going to check the time.

You're dozing (again) when you realize someone is standing next to you. It takes a moment, but once you realize that fact you snap to pretty suddenly. You drop your book to the table and your arms do this weird flailing thing that confuses even you, until your chair falls forward and is on four legs again. Once you get a hold of your body you blink, and realize that Gabriel is caught in nigh-hysterical laughter. You scowl at him but the sound is so genuine that it warms your heart and you can’t help but smile. You probably did look ridiculous.

After a good (maybe too) long laugh, he sits sideways in the chair next to you and stretches his legs over your lap. “What’re ya doing Gumdrop?”

For some reason that name makes you giggle. A lot. Shoulders shaking, you realize, aw hell, it’s not that funny and you must be more tired than you thought. You gain some self-control and settle back into place with your book, eyes already starting to droop again. “Readin’.”

“Really? Because it looked like you were sleepin’.”

Rats. “Nope,” you say and try again with the page. Fifth time’s the charm, you hope.

“My bad. You must have been reading with your eyes closed.”

“Shut up,” you say and shoot him a smile. You turn back to your book and focus because Gabriel is watching now. Every word is as much a slog as every step after a marathon run but you’re getting through. Mostly.

You jerk your head up, having caught yourself about to fall asleep yet again. Gabriel chuckles. He’s sitting so much closer to you now and his feet are back on the ground. He’s staring at you and you stare back, trying to figure out what he could be up t–

He presses a light kiss to the end of your collarbone closest to your shoulder. Then he moves in and presses another one right next to it– this time with a little suckle that makes you drop your book. “Gabriel,” you say, sounding strangled as he places open-mouthed kisses all the way down, stopping at the middle to dip his tongue to the space in the middle and you let your head fall back. “Damn it,” you mumble, completely unable to open your eyes now. Apparently you’ve reached your quota.

“Let’s go to bed, Lemon Drop,” Gabriel chuckles and picks you up.

   7. Nose

“Let’s give ‘em some space,” Dean says and you listen as they shuffle away awkwardly. You don’t look away from the unconscious angel under you. You’re kneeling behind Gabriel’s head, having moved there to give Castiel whatever room he needed, but now you can’t seem to move anywhere else. You lean down and study his face, now calm and peaceful whereas before he had been screaming in agony, trapped in his vessel while a warded knife had tried to destroy his true self.

He’s safe now, he’s fine; Castiel told you he’s going to be just fine, but how close he had been still makes you tremble. The demon-led coven of witches is dead, razed to the ground with everything they had, but you’d kill them all with your bare hands if you could. You’d–

Gabriel’s eyes flutter open and all thoughts of murder leave you as he takes some time to stare up at you. It’s an alien reaction, probably unnerving with how utterly still he is, but you’re used to this sort of thing by now. You force a smile. “How you feeling, Fruitcake?”

He blinks and slowly grows a smile. He holds your head and picks himself up enough to place a kiss to your nose. As per his new habit, it lingers. “Like I could use about a week in bed, Bonbon. You up for it?”

You laugh, relieved tears coming to your eyes. “Don’t do that to me ever again.”

“I can’t promise that.” His smile turns to that same cocky expression you know and alternately love and hate. “Especially when I get such a nice view when I wake up.”

You shake your head and rest your forehead against his. “As long as you wake up.”

   8. Throat

You’re cuddling on the couch, watching a monster movie marathon when Gabe starts to squirm. You lift your head to look at him but he keeps his frown focused on the TV even though he moves like his back itches. And itches. And it must really itch back there.

“You okay?” you ask and he snaps his head down like he forgot you were there. Maybe he didn’t know you were still awake, judging by his embarrassed smile. You smile back, because who would have thought he’d be this comfortable with you? “Need me to scratch your back?”

He squints, sort of looking like Castiel for a moment and you have to bite down on a laugh. “Yeah, actually,” he says, surprising you. You sit up and he flops down on his stomach. He looks back at you and flutters his eyelashes. “Pretty pretty please, my little Snickerdoodle? I’ll pay you back.”

You laugh and start scratching his back all over. “That might be even more ridiculous than ‘Sugarlump’.”

“Oooof,” he says and his eyes partly shut in bliss. You half expect him to start purring. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing he’s ever done. “Whatever you say, as long as you keep doing that…”

You chuckle but keep up your work, alternating between using your nails and pressing in hard with your fingers. Gabriel is content through it all and you can feel him relax and then come back to himself. When he stretches you sit back and ask, “Better?”

“Oh. Much.” You barely catch a flash of the mischievous look in his eyes before he pounces and has you pinned to the couch. You squirm but his grip is light and the look on his face is playful.

“What are you up to?” you ask suspiciously, fighting a losing battle against a smile.

“I told you I’d repay the favor,” he says and dips down to kiss your throat.

You gasp as his tongue and lips work their way up your neck. He kisses, nips, and suckles at almost every inch of flesh and you wiggle underneath him, unable to grab, hold, or do anything else as your angel teases his way up and over to your jaw line. You moan approvingly as he starts to go for your ear–

The light flicks on and you blink at the sudden brightness.

“Oh– oh, son of a bitch my eyes!”

Gabriel’s eyes flash as he sits up and turns to glare death at Dean, and you sigh and throw your arm over your own eyes, mood effectively killed.

You hope Gabriel takes requests for TV Hell.

   9. Eyelids

You’re lying in bed with Gabe. Nothing is happening. The hunt you just went on was nonstop from the second you left the bunker and ended with you and the boys being chased on your way out of town, making a thirteen-hour trip back home in half the time and leaving you so full on adrenaline you could barely sleep the entire way, especially with Dean keeping himself awake by blasting his music. You’re finally back home, showered, and coming down from the stage of ‘somehow too tired to sleep’ much to Gabriel’s annoyance.

So now you’re dozing, on the very cusp of sleep when Gabriel leans over you. You can sense it. You can certainly feel it when he presses a kiss to each of your eyelids. “Hey, don’t send me to the ferryman yet,” you mumble, waking up just slightly.

He snorts and nuzzles you. “Go to sleep, Sweets.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

   10. Spine

“Hey, see if you can find this book?”

“On it,” you say and snatch the index card Sam’s holding up. He won't look up from his computer and he probably won’t even remember he sent you to get the book when you bring it to him, he’s so deep in his research hole. You grin at the thought and go to one of the larger sets of shelves, searching high and low for the book on ghouls Sam needs.

Of course it’s high. You stand on your tip toes and reach, just barely able to grab the book, when arms wrap around you. You freeze. Seriously, Gabriel is lucky you’re not as high-strung as you were before you started living in a heavily fortified bunker, or his vessel would resemble a colander by now.

One arm is wrapped around your hip and the other one crosses up over your stomach. His nose pokes into your lower back and you whisper, “Gabe, what are you doin–”

“Shh,” Gabriel whispers and presses a kiss into the base of your spine. You gasp and look back but Sam is, thankfully, still in his own little world. You turn your head forward again, keeping quiet as Gabriel kisses up your spine. Despite the loose shirt you feel each and every kiss as surely as if you were wearing nothing. There are no nips, no tongue, just lips moving up your back and ending just under the back of your neck. Your breathing is shallow and it sounds like Gabriel’s is too, as he just stands there, his arms tighter around you, breathing you in.

“Happy researching, Honeybun,” he says with a smile in his voice before he’s off again.

You barely manage to pull the book out and you move more slowly, as if dazed. Sam takes the tome from you with a, “Oh, thanks, how did you know I…” and he’s back in the zone again, utterly oblivious as you slump at the table and take a moment to collect yourself.

You are suspicious that any of these kisses could ever be underrated.

   11. Stomach

You wake up, too comfortable to be on an old warehouse floor. It’s warm and you’re laying on something so soft that for a moment you think you might be dreaming. You hear Gabriel murmuring in some other language– Enochian. This is a surprise. He never speaks it, at least not where you can hear it, and it sounds almost beautiful coming from him. You’ve only heard the language in halting syllables born of Sam’s inexperience, and rough, start-stop words from Castiel’s rough gravel and grave voice. Gabe’s words are light, almost sing-song, and carry the harsh language more smoothly than you would have thought possible.

It takes you a minute to realize your shirt is off. It bothers you less than you think it should– but when Gabe presses heavy kisses in a small circle around a spot on your stomach, you understand why. You, a rogue angel and said angel’s blade made for a very unhappy meeting.

You blink your eyes open and lean your head to the side so you can look down at Gabriel. Hazel eyes glinting gold look up at you as he presses one last kiss to the new scar just an inch or two from your bellybutton. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” he says.

“I can’t promise that.” You smile and run your fingers through his hair. “Especially when I get such a nice view.”

He snorts and shoots you an ‘I’m so not amused’ look, but he rests his head on your stomach so he can keep his eyes on you. His fingers stroke so lightly down your other side you can barely feel them. “It was so much easier. Before.”

“It always is,” you say levelly. As much as Gabriel is known for running, he hasn’t done so yet. He could have healed you in the warehouse and left, digging a hole too deep for anybody to ever find him again. But he’s here, now, and that means something.

“Do you ever wonder if it isn’t worth it?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

He looks like he didn’t expect that. Your smile feels a little more natural, a little less forced, and you brush your fingers across his cheek. “I wonder sometimes, and every time I realize that it is. Even when you annoy the ever-loving shit out of me…even when you scare me…even when I scare myself with just how much I care.” You shrug with one shoulder. “I’m not here to worship your every move without question. And I’m pretty sure you could find that elsewhere. No, worship isn’t my bag. Love, though…even with all the doubt and questions and frustration…I can do that.”

He just stares for a moment. Then he relaxes his head and shuts his eyes.

   12. Hipbone

You’re reading in your room at night. When half the bed creaks and dips you don’t even look over, you just grab the bag of chips and set it in between the two of you.

“No thanks,” Gabe says and moves the bag elsewhere. He puts his head on your shoulder. “What are you reading now?”

It’s the same book you hadn’t finished the night that Gabriel…ahem. You shake your head slightly and refocus your attention on the story. It’s not hard, and you’re drawn back into an engrossing resolution.

Until Gabriel bites at your hip and gives it such a filthy tongue-involved kiss that you jerk and your book crashes painfully into your face. You ignore the throbbing of your nose, though, to stare at Gabriel. His smile is so delightfully wicked and you can still feel where he kissed you.

“That might have been the most underrated one yet,” he says and sits up.

You flash hot and glare at him, laying the book on your chest. “You teasing little bastard.”

You’re on your way to giving him a piece of your mind when Gabriel’s eyes darken and in a second he’s straddling your waist and moving the book over to the table. He grabs your hands with his, palm-to-palm, and laces your fingers together as he sinks his weight on top of you.

“Oh no, Honeybear.” He licks his lips. “‘Teasing’ implies no intent to follow through, and me? I’ve got plenty of that.”

You swallow hard. And smirk. “Prove it.”

   13. Thigh (and Oh My)

You’re sweating, gasping; your lips feel well-used and you’re sure you have a thousand and one hickeys all over your body. Right now Gabe is adding to the collection by kissing your thighs. Outer, on top, maddeningly not inner but you refuse to beg. So far. This might be how you die; he might kill you just by sheer want.

But oh, what a way to go.

Finally he moves inward. His kisses are small but sizzle with his magical indentations. He licks a small stripe up the skin and peppers the area with even lighter, more sensitive kisses. He repeats the motions on your other thigh, lick, kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss, and you moan at the pressure in your body building increasingly (too) fast.

“You know…my favorite type of kiss is definitely not underrated,” Gabriel chuckles from between your legs.

You find you have no problem with the addition.

 As you both lie in the afterglow –Gabriel smug and pleased, and you spent and pleased– you manage to croak, “You were right. Definitely not underrated.”

“Mm hm.” He pulls you closer into his arms. “What do you think, Muffin? Is it your favorite too?”

You think. And smile. And laugh. You roll over to lie half on his chest and meet him face to face. “One of them,” you say, considering. “But you don’t have a catalogue to compare it to like I do.” He raises an eyebrow but you stick with your idea. “I just think that little list of yours was…interesting. You might like some of them more than you think.” You know you have.

His eyes take on that mischievous shine you love so much. “Maybe I will.”

“You might have to come around more often.”

His expression softens. “I think I can do that.” He leans in to kiss your lips. You move your face at the last second and press a kiss to his forehead. You have no grace, no pagan magic, so you treat it with reverence. Like a promise.

…

“No to sound like I’m in a hurry, but I can’t wait until we get to the end of–.”

“Shut up, Gabriel.”

#gabriel x reader #gabriel x you #gabriel spn #spn x reader #supernatural fanfic #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #gabriel supernatural #archangel x reader #spn reader insert #reader insert #fluff #kisses

[jrazillashadowworks]

A Rainy Day

This is for March’s Victubia theme, a rainy day. I hope that you enjoy it. ^,,^

Word count: 2698

Warnings: Scene of violence.

The sky was chaos, a rolling, dark grey, tumultuous ocean. A torrent blasted the muddy field below, deafening cracks of thunder quaking the air. Streaks of blistering lightning sliced across the sky, curling fingers of monstrous white electricity.

Charging through the slick muck, flaying thick mud with each frantic step, a young man, stung by the heavy, wet blades of rain, searched. Hair drenched, clinging to his face, vision blurred, he continued his breakneck gait, soaked to the very bone, the shuddering cold only staunched by the scorching of his skin. His military grade rifle, strapped to his broad shoulder, jostled against the large, medical knapsack he wore on his back, marking him for what he was, a medic.

He continued on, steadfast, despite his screaming body, breathing harshly, lungs burning, and mind a maelstrom of worried thoughts, coiled, battling neverendingly with hopeful naivety. It was all but impossible to make out the surroundings, a soggy watercolor painting of browns, greens, and greys running together, beset by a draping haze.

By some miracle, his ears were able to discern the sounds of battle through the downpour a few feet ahead, sharp stings of metal ringing out. Gasping, he crested the hill and froze on the spot, a blinding blast of light from above, disorientating him for a second. Once his vision returned, pupils focusing, he caught glimpse of a horrible sight that stopped his heart mid-beat, blood completely icing over.

There, before him, over ten of Minx’s soldiers lay in the dirt, streams of blood marring their purple and gold uniforms, watering into the mud, beyond them, a collection of dead Barr troopers. The hopes he had clung to until that moment were dashed, sunk into the sludge. Tears began to form, throat tightening, until another sharp sound wrenched him out of his misery to a single Minx soldier still standing, just in eyeshot.

This soldier was surrounded by five Barr troopers, brandishing sparkling cutlasses and rapiers, glinting with morbid purpose, though the survivor remained planted to the spot, appearing unperturbed and ready. They encroached on the curly, dark-haired survivor whose weapons were unlike the others, blades of darkened steel, attached to his arms, lifted in a defensive stance.

Everything grew silent as the tense standoff continued, the rain a quiet vale. The medic’s breathing, slipped through cracked lips, body unable to move even an inch. Then like a flash, one of the troopers lunged, thin rapier striking out like a serpent, aimed directly at the survivor's heart. Sucking in, the medic watched in horror as what looked to be a perfect thrust. However, at the exact moment, the rapier was to pierce him, the Minx soldier expertly and instantly sidestepped with a skill the medic had not seen before, slashing out with his right blade. Slicing all the way through, the Barr trooper continued past him, skidding, head sliding off, and body smashing against the mud.

As if to signal the others, the death of their comrade, sent them into a furious rage, converging on the Minx soldier simultaneously, their baleful voices lost. With movements akin to a dance, the survivor twirled and dodged, retaliating with a single slash for each, felling them in a perfect display of blade skill. The battle lasted but only a few seconds and the survivor remained such, still standing, swiping his arm blades, he relieved them of the blood in streaks that drew two crescents around him.

The medic’s mouth hung open, unhinged as he still could not believe what he had just witnessed, lips fumbling over unintelligible whispers. Feeling his voice rise in his throat like a volcano, he prepared to cheer when a single flash of movement, the striking color of red and gold snatched his attention. Another lone trooper appeared out of nowhere, rifle raising in slow motion, steadily aiming up at the survivor, threatening to end it all.

Brows rising high, the medic fluidly unstrapped his own rifle with lightning speed, brought on by white-hot adrenaline and biting anxiety. Everything suddenly slowed to a crawl as the medic found it impossible to aim due to the trickles of rain leaking into his eyes, a slight tremor shaking his arms. However, he did not stop, realizing if he didn’t do something that soldier would die. At the moment, his senses were heightened, the staunch smell of drowned earth and diluted blood filling his senses, manifesting a moist lump in his throat. One eye open, the world seemed to swirl and vibrate around this one trooper, the medic’s heart near beating out of his chest, mouth now agape to let out strained breaths. Cocking the hammer of the rifle, and more out of jittering reflex, he squeezed the trigger, the blast echoing out, louder than the lightning, louder than anything ever before.

As the reverberation settled into the cacophony of rainfall, the medic opened his eyes, realizing he had them closed, gun still poised. Brain catching up, the medic darted his eyes around, seeing the survivor standing where the trooper had been, now lying dead under his blades. However, now the survivor's face was turned towards directly to him. Did he succeed in shooting him? He had no idea, but what mattered was, the soldier was still alive.

Lowering his gun, his instincts took over and the medic started to tumble down the hill, wanting, no, needing to check if the survivor was hurt. On his approach, the survivor returned to his downed compatriots, pointing at them. Coming up alongside them, the medic made out that they weren’t actually dead at all, still writhing slightly on the ground, groaning in pain. He was unsure how he had failed to notice their movements.

“I’m here to help,” the medic shouted over the rain, immediately reprimanded by the survivor’s finger, rising up to his own lips. His warm brown eyes were serious and stoic, boring into him. Up close, the medic could tell that the survivor had to be a few years older than himself but was still young and was rather handsome with an undeniably mysterious air about him.  

Lowering his voice, he knelt down, assessing the wounded soldiers with pinpoint focus. All had suffered a bullet wound but not much else. Upon quick first inspection, none appeared to have been hit in a vital area at least, another miracle in itself. Only one remained motionless among the group, a man that looked to be in his fifties with a salt and pepper beard and wide, mortified, milked over, blue eyes. His uniform was more embellished than the others, revealing his rank as captain. A single hole had been shot through his head, no doubt killing him instantly. Bowing his head, Luca gulped down, feeling the immense sadness of losing one of Minx’s trusted captains. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Forcing down his sadness under his duty, and finding his voice again, he spoke up with a tone as professional as he could muster. “My name is Luca. I’m an assigned military medic. Is there anywhere we could take them so I can stabilize them?”

“Riley,” the standing soldier replied quietly, still looking out over the ridge. “And yes, we have a tent set up not far from here.”

“Okay. We are going to have to make multiple trips but if we both carry one it shouldn’t take long. Don’t want to agitate their wounds any further by trying to overextend ourselves.” He wished he had a stretcher or something and more medics but he was alone in this. They would have to do. “You are okay to lift them aren’t you?”

Riley nodded and turned to pick up one of his comrades into his arms, Luca doing the same. “Okay, Riley, my friend. Lead the way please.” All his working out had paid off, the medic having no problem carefully carrying the soldiers to the small encampment, that consisted of only a single purple tent, no doubt shared by their unit alone. Inside, he lay them on the cots already set up. Going back and forth until all had been retrieved, the captain brought last, Luca immediately got to work.

With expert and gentle hands, he removed the bullets that had been embedded in the soldier’s extremities, cleaning and patching up the wounds, all the while, offering comforting words to his patients. With each soldier patched, they thanked him graciously and solemnly. Riley, kept outside the tent, silently guarding the open flap, scanning ahead for any possible attackers, helping to ease the worries of those inside.

It took a good thirty minutes, Luca darting to each person until only a single soldier remained in need of aid. They were yet another attractive individual, a woman with deep russet skin and cropped short, pale blondish hair. With a bloodied hand, they held their shoulder, greeting Luca with a rather smarmy smirk, little pain visible on her tomboyish countenance. “Saved me for last huh? Well, aren’t you a good-looking, muscular piece of medic?” She whistled then winced from the sharp pain, chuckling. “You definitely aren’t what one would expect.”

Luca completely missed her compliment, too focused on attentively fixing up her wound. “Please tell me if I make the pain worse. I’ll be very gentle.”

“What if I like it rough?” They countered.

“You got the wrong medic for that then,” Luca giggled charmingly, trying to keep the blush from his face, reminding himself to be professional. She continued to watch him as he worked, fingers indeed like soft satin.

“Can’t believe we were ambushed instantly upon taking to the field,” she suddenly blurted, possibly to keep her mind occupied upon realizing he was about to remove the bullet. “We all suggested that silly old captain that we should send out a scout before marching. But did he listen? Nooo. Lording his rank over us. Look at him now…”

Luca, perturbed by her egregious remark at the now dead captain, inadvertently jerked the forceps slightly when removing the slug. Not enough to make the wound worse but enough to be painful. Hissing in a deep breath, she stiffened into a plank, muscles tensed tight, glaring at him with fiendish black eyes, lips curled in a furious snarl. “You said you were going to be gentle! Shit!!!”

The entire tent roused, startled by the sudden tantrum, Riley side glancing inside. “I’m so terribly sorry!” Luca yelped, speaking not only to her but to the others, dropping the instrument to the floor with a clink, holding his palms up. His expression was both apologetic and ashamed. “Please forgive me!”

Her countenance softened into a childish pout as she relaxed again, sighing heavily. “Fine, but only because you are so damn good looking.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Luca nodded repeatedly. Finishing her up with great care, he apologized again.

“Yeah, yeah,” she rolled her eyes. “How old are you anyway? Maybe you can make it up to me with a date?”

Suddenly feeling nervous, taken aback by her out of the blue offer, he rubbed a hand through his wet hair “I-I’m eighteen…”

Thin brows shooting up, she stared at him incredulously before chuckling disappointingly as if he had done something wrong. “Damn. Too young for my tastes. You got my hopes up for nothing.”

Not sure how to even reply to such a thing he simply apologized yet again. “Ah well. Guess Imma just rest now, thanks.”

“My pleasure, soldier.”

She scoffed at that. “Lucia.”

“Oh. That’s a pretty name.”

“Don’t go trying to charm me now. You heard my answer.”

“I wasn’t…” Luca stifled a laugh causing Lucia to squint her eyes suspiciously. “What’s so funny?”

“It’s just that, my name is Luca. We are only one letter away from having the same name.” He let out a soft snort and she almost made the exact same sound.

“You are a special kind of medic, Luca. Now, let me stew over how little we actually were able to do in this war. What a bloody letdown.”

Wanting to argue with her that, he decided against it and just nodded, Luca, moving over to Riley who shook his head without looking at him. “I’m fine.”

Luca wanted to persist but he did not want to impede in his duty, so he went back to check on everyone. Things grew silent in the camp, the sound of rain continuing to drone, neverendingly tapping against the tent’s exterior. There was an uneasiness on the faces of the others as time went on despite the fact that they were now stabilized and protected from the rain. Anxious whispers wafted through of a possible raid by some other unit within Barr’s rebellious forces. Luca did what he could to keep spirits up but, he couldn’t deny the sinking fear that it could happen, the mere thought prickling the hair on his thick arms to stand on end.

Over an hour of tense quiet, and a new sound peaked over the rain, a rumbling collection of splashes coming from behind the tent alerted everyone to freeze. Shadowed figures filtered from the other side of the fabric of the tent, revealing no less than forty marching around it, bayonetted rifles held before them. Luca’s muscles clenched tight as he watched Riley’s back, waiting for the inevitable to happen. He could not stop his mind from reeling, holding his breath for far too long.

“What happened here?” a mighty, heavily Caribbean accented female voice demanded, her form veiled just out of sight.

Riley promptly saluted, sending a wave of relief over the tent's occupants. “Major. We were ambushed and took a volley. One casualty, the captain. A medic showed up out of nowhere and helped me bring them back to camp and gave them all prompt medical attention.”

“Thank you, soldier,” the voice replied calmly, passing to stand in the entryway.

Luca blinked at the tall woman, standing a couple inches over him, her body athletic, dressed in a major’s uniform, right arm exposed and tattooed with tribal designs. Her hair was long coils of black and teal that was tied back, a few dreadlocks hanging in her angular, mesmerizingly powerful face. Tracing over the group once over, twice over, she then locked onto Luca, the only one standing within.

“Are you the medic he spoke of?”

Instantly, he shot up straight, and saluted her, knowing full well who she was. “Yes, Major!” He yelled, voice cracking slightly.

She gave him a subdued but genuine smile. “By helping to save these soldiers, you have done a great service to her majesty. The next time I speak with the Queen, I will mention your heroic deed. What is your name?”

Already needing to fight back tears, his chest welling up with warmth, he sniffed loudly, trying to not embarrass himself. “My name is Luca, Major! I do not deserve such an honor! I only did what little I could to help her majesties grand and brave soldiers.” He peeked past her to Riley. “However, if I may. It was Riley who single-handedly fought back the remaining troopers to ensure I could even help at all! Without him, I dare not imagine what horrible fate awaited us.”  

Turning her head to him, she gave him an acknowledging nod. “I will, of course, be sure to mention his overwhelming contribution as well.” She addressed everyone now, her fervent tone, rousing and inspiring, those that once lay, sitting up on their cots. “With things as they are, the captain killed in action, this unit shall now fall under my command. Know that it is not forced upon you, should you be too hurt to continue on, remain here and rest…but. If any of you can still fight, I ask that you join me as we continue to march forward to help drive this treacherous rebellion into the ground, so that it may be completely washed away by the rain.”

Feeling utterly enthralled and uplifted by her speech, Luca and a few others, including Lucia rose up despite their wounds, their voices melting together into a rallied roar. “Yes, Major! By her majesties glory, we shall see them defeated, swept away by the mighty rain!”  

#Victubia #fan fiction #my writing #VTOTM

[everlarkbirthdaydrabbles]

Hi, my birthday is February 19th and I'd love something along the lines of enemies to lovers Modern AU (smut) if that's possible. Thank you so much to all the authors who contribute!!

Wishing you a wonderful birthday! To start you days off right, the always delightful @appleblossomgirl0305 has written this perfect bit of Everlark, just for you! Enjoy!

Treed

Rating: M/E

Trigger warnings: Logging operations? Heights? The mating habits of quail?

A/N: Happy birthday! I hope all of your birthday wishes come true! Never-ending gratitude to @xerxia31 for helping in every way possible.

Peeta hunkered down in his chair, swiveling away from the opening of his cubicle. He had two immediate problems; his editor was looking for him and he was hungover. Again. Plutarch Heavensbee was hard to take on a normal day, but with a blazing headache and already sour stomach, Peeta feared the consequences of a run in this morning.

“Damn,” he muttered, sucking a sharp whistling breath as he burned his tongue on his scaldingly hot coffee. Why did the little kiosk in the entryway always insist on making horribly weak, but ridiculously hot coffee? Maybe a better question was why he continued to buy it. But every time he walked into the chrome and marble opulence of the Capital Media Corps foyer, with its twenty stories of frantically busy, hungry machine of information and commerce looming above him, he felt like an imposter. He felt like every silk-shirted woman in her clackity-clacking heels determinedly running to the next important story, each shiny-shoed, cuff-linked man barking into his cell phone that he “needed it yesterday, dammit!” could tell he didn’t really belong there. That he was a small-town boy from District 12 who still dreamt of his parent’s bakery, cinnamon and dill-scented tendrils curling through his dreams.

He knew how lucky he was to have landed a job at the Capitol Media Corps. The cutthroat elite clawed each other apart, climbing over the backs of their fallen colleagues to nab a position at the exclusive media conglomerate. Unbeknownst to Peeta, the editor at his hometown paper had entered some of his articles and cartoons into several competitions and Peeta was shocked when he received the letter that he had won the Snowbird Award for Outstanding Young Journalists.

Within days, Peeta was contacted by Plutarch Heavensbee himself and the renowned Editor in Chief had offered him a prestigious job at CMC. Peeta had wanted to be proud, to feel the undeniable tug of ambition, but all he felt was hurt. Hurt that Haymitch had gone behind his back and seemed happy to tie a bow around his neck and send him off to the Capitol. Saddened that his father had patted him on the back and told him he’d be a fool not to go. Devastated that even this grand achievement hadn’t been enough to attract the attention of the girl he had loved and pined for his entire life. So he accepted the job, drove everything he owned across the country to the god-forsaken Capitol and began what had turned out to be an incredibly depressing chapter of his life.  

When he had begun his job as the sole political cartoonist for CMC, he had been told that he was welcome to be funny, and reasonably political, but that in no uncertain terms he was not to bite the hand that fed them. And President Snow fed them all. And held their collective nuts in a vice. So the very things that had made him valuable, his shrewd wit and political astuteness, his ability to see several moves ahead to an inevitable end, were cut off at the knees. And thus, he had become a neutered journalist, reduced to drawing caricatures.

He tried not to care, to make the most of this charmed life, which people never tired of telling him how lucky he was to have. He spent the first year playing the part of hard-hitting, hard-partying member of the press. He drank too much, slept with way too many women who called him “Peter” and didn’t even ask if he wanted their number. He bought terrible, blistering-hot coffee as a prop, he dressed ironically in wingtips and open-collared shirts because he could never get the knot on his tie to sit right. He was just the quirky political cartoonist anyway. Most of his co-workers preferred to consider him invisible.

Now, four years later and nearing his thirtieth birthday, he was hungover, rapidly running out of creative ways to depict President Snow’s political rivals as zoo animals. And he couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the clock and wondering if his dad, flour-dusted and ensconced in the warmth of bakery, had put the cheese buns in the oven yet.

“There you are, Mellark,” boomed Heavensbee from directly behind Peeta. Peeta sprang forward, juggling his coffee to prevent third-degree burns. “I’ve got an assignment for you.”

Coffee safely deposited on his desk, Peeta swiveled to face his editor. Plutarch Heavensbee was nothing if not flamboyant. Currently, he was decked out in an amethyst waistcoat with gold brocade and persimmon-orange scarf tied around his neck. “An assignment?” Peeta asked cautiously, he’d never been given an actual assignment before, just general instructions to point out the obvious buffoonery of Snow’s chosen targets.

“Yes,” said Plutarch, examining his nails. “We’re sending you home. To District 12.” Peeta’s heart took flight before he could stop it. Then he remembered that it was no longer his home. “It seems,” Plutarch continued, “that some silly girl has taken it upon herself to stop logical progress of an important logging project by taking up residence in some old tree.” He sighed heavily, as if the very stupidity of such a nonsensical act exhausted him. “The President himself has taken an interest in getting her to come down.”

“But, Mr. Heavensbee, I’m a political cartoonist,” Peeta felt the need to remind his editor, he couldn’t blame his boss for forgetting based on his unremarkable work to date.

“Of course you are, m’boy, but you were an investigative journalist before you came to us, were you not?” Before Peeta could answer, Plutarch continued, with a dismissive wave of his heavily ringed hand, “And regardless you’re from 12. Your lot are notoriously unwelcoming to strangers. Throw a Capitolite into their midst and their lips close up tighter than a clam shell. No, I need you to cover this story and do your best to make sure the community understands that it’s in everyone’s best interest if she comes down.” Plutarch’s pink-rimmed eyes narrowed as they met Peeta’s and Peeta was surprised to feel defensive on behalf of the unknown girl in the tree. You can take the boy out of District 12… Maybe Plutarch had a point.

Peeta ran through a litany of possible responses. He could claim he was too busy, but who was he kidding? He could refuse, but that seemed destined to end in him being fired, which was only partially attractive. He could try to wiggle out of it, claim he was sick or something, but he couldn’t muster the necessary conviction. What was the point? Then he was assaulted by a series of images that nearly stole the breath from him: his father’s soft chuckle, the smell of cinnamon buns fresh from the oven as he drizzled them with icing, the soft thud of hickory nuts falling into the sun-warmed earth. He sighed, shrugging, “When do I leave?”

“You’re on the noon train. Just enough time to pack and call your folks to let them know you’ll be staying with them.” Peeta tried to object, but Plutarch cut him off. “No hotels for our hometown boy. People need to see you coming out of the bakery every morning on your way to talk this crazy girl out of the tree.”

Peeta sighed. There was no use arguing with Plutarch, he’d figure it out when he got there.

Peeta stood, slung his bag over his shoulder and went to retrieve his coffee off the desk before deciding the trash bin was a better place for it. No matter what potential horrors the next few days held, strong black tea and cinnamon rolls would temper the experience.

As Peeta walked down the cubicle alley, Plutarch called out to him, “You don’t happen to know this girl, this,” he looked down at the note in his hand, “Katniss Everdeen, do you?”

All of the blood rushed to his feet, making him light headed as Peeta shook his head feebly and resumed his walk to the elevator. He wasn’t lying, he didn’t actually know her. Though she was the only girl he had ever loved. And as he imagined her lithe body scaling a tree, her signature braid trailing behind her, his stomach seized in humiliation. Now, in addition to his memories and dreams, he was going to be chasing Katniss Everdeen professionally.

xxxxx

It was surprisingly boring being an eco-terrorist. That’s what they were calling her now: Katniss Everdeen, the Eco-terrorist. At least that’s what the logging executives from the Capitol called her. Last she heard from Gale when he dropped off her latest supplies around 2:00 am, several of the more radical environmental groups were claiming responsibility for her “activism”. She wanted to roll her eyes at all of them. Better yet, she just wanted them all to go home and leave her and the forest alone. She wasn’t doing this for them (or god-forbid to be famous?), she was doing it because it had to be done. The trees and the creatures that depended on them couldn’t fight for themselves, so she supposed she should do it. Probably should have been Gale, he was definitely prettier than her, more charismatic and photogenic, but she was lighter and the better climber, so this one fell on her shoulders.

Since she’d climbed up here ten days ago, she’d spent most of her mornings negotiating via cell phone with irate businessmen who alternated between cajoling her to come down like a good girl and threatening that they’d cut the tree down with her in it if she didn’t get her ass down, then the rest of her day watching and listening, both of which suited her fine. They’d sent a few guys up on the pulley system they’d rigged with the order to “bring her down”, but who were they kidding? She just scampered out of their reach on the branches that couldn’t possibly support their weight and gracelessness, and at the first ominous crack, they had predictably retreated, swearing all the way down.

Gale had informed her that the press was “finally taking notice” and that they’d be showing up anytime now. Katniss hoped most of the interviews would happen from the ground anyway, she figured it was unlikely that anyone would be willing to climb up to talk with her. Haymitch Abernathy, who ran the local paper had sent up a fifth of good whiskey in her bucket and a note that read, “Good luck, Sweetheart.” That was pretty much her idea of a perfect interaction with the press.

But just as the sun was starting to dip down towards the treetops, she saw that someone was being raised up to her in the harness. She had positioned her camp 20 feet up the tree on branches too small to support a pulley system, but she was curious enough to go down to the branch where her visitor would soon be deposited. Of course, she’d stay a good four feet out of his reach, she wasn’t going to make this too easy on him, but she was a tiny bit impressed that he’d elected to meet her on her level.

But when the reporter from the CMC (she could tell from the orange vest emblazoned with their symbol) finally made it up to her, he grasped onto the branch in a way that made her heart clench in sympathy. She recognized his fear and climbed down to him. When he had stopped shaking enough to raise his head, from beneath the ridiculous hardhat, Katniss was met with the blue eyes and freckled cheeks she only saw in her dreams. And her heart clenched for an entirely different reason.

xxxxx

God, it was humiliating to see her like this after all this time. Being hoisted up in a harness, wearing a hardhat and neon orange safety vest. What these accessories were supposed to keep him safe from was a complete mystery. Maybe they just thought it would make him a little more visible as he plummeted to his death from the top of this damn tree. He hoped he wasn’t visibly shaking, but he figured he probably was, since his insides felt gooshy and his hands wouldn’t grip properly. Leave it to Katniss to make him feel even more ridiculously useless. As if silently pining for her for several decades wasn’t pathetic enough, now he got to hang from a harness and quake clamily. This was the farthest thing from the reunions he had fantasized about over the years. It was as if all those years of exile in the Capitol had meant less than nothing. The harness jerked as he reached the end of the cable and he squeezed his eyes closed and bit the inside of his lip to keep from crying out.

His own cowardice disgusted him. But then, he’d always had a weakness for this girl. And suddenly, confusingly, he felt more like his sixteen year old self than he did his 29. He was still a wreck for this girl in all the ways that mattered.

When he had steeled himself enough to open his eyes, there she was. Katniss Everdeen was perched, harness-free on a tree branch seventy feet in the air like some kind of fucking wood nymph. And she had the audacity to look like she was worried about him! Fuck that, he was not going to be undone again by Katniss Everdeen. He was going to interview her, write up his article and get out of District 12.

He forced himself to look at her with a journalist’s eye. The truth was, she wasn’t that big or that pretty. So why did she always make his heart race like he’d sprinted a mile? Why did he feel that it would be worth the risk of probable death to reach out and run her braid through his fingers like he’d always longed to do? There was something about Katniss, there always had been, that made him feel too raw. That made him acutely aware of how sub-par he was and how desperately he wanted to be better. The truth was also that she was magnificent. He gritted his teeth. Screw her. He was a successful Capitol journalist and she was sitting in a tree.

Suddenly realizing that he’d just sitting there staring at her for several minutes, Peeta cleared his throat and spoke. “Hi, Katniss, I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Peeta Mellark. We went to school together.”

xxxxx

She scowled at him. He had be kidding her, of course she knew who he was. In fact, she couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t aware of him. Painfully aware.

She couldn’t stand Peeta Mellark. Mostly because he made her want things she could never have. He made her painfully aware of all of the things she lacked. Next to his golden beauty, his broad body that emanated health and calm, she was nothing but darkness, sinew and bone, and hunger. But worst of all, he was the embodiment of an unpaid debt. And even though he very obviously didn’t need anything from her now, she couldn’t help hating him a little for leaving. After all, Peeta Mellark was the only boy she had ever loved.

She nodded curtly, not trusting her voice. Peeta pulled out his phone and, with one arm still wrapped in a death grip around the branch, asked if he could record their interview. Considering that his hand was shaking too hard to write effectively, she agreed. She closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. This is what she had been waiting for. She needed to focus and speak for the forest. Even if what she really wanted was to know every detail of Peeta’s life since he’d left year ago. No, she admonished herself, what she wanted was to save this damn tree.

“Let’s start simply, shall we? Why are you sitting in this tree?” Peeta asked.

“Because those idiots want to cut it down.” Katniss gestured towards the ant-like people moving below. She saw Peeta glance down, then his head snapped back up and he swallowed visibly.

“Isn’t that their right? Isn’t it their tree?”

Katniss snorted. “This tree is at least 300 years old. Can it be owned by someone? Especially by someone who has no idea of it’s real value?” she snapped. Peeta looked away.  

She inhaled slowly through her nose, trying to stay calm, but calm just wasn’t her thing. Cold, stoic, unconquerable, yes; calm and diplomatic, not so much. She asked, “Have you ever heard of a keystone species?” When Peeta shook his head no, she explained, “It’s a… a species on which other species in an ecosystem depend. If it were removed, or destroyed, the ecosystem would change drastically, it would essentially collapse. This heritage oak is holding down this part of the forest. If they cut it down it will be eliminating food and habitat for all sorts of wildlife. It will impact the stream that flows from the spring on this hillside, which is the summer water source for the Seam.” Katniss took in the tree around her. It truly was magnificent, towering over the surrounding forest, and its extensive branches looked as though they were standing as a sentinel between the earth and the sky.

His voice broke her reverie. “How can one tree have such an impact?”

She shook her head in frustration. She herself understood how one vitally important thing, or person, could be the point upon which everything else pivoted. She had spent years trying to forget Peeta Mellark, and the debt she owed him. But five minutes with him and she was positive she had never been around a braver, more compelling, more captivating person.

“All of the plants and animals that live is this forest rely on a fragile ecological balance. If this tree is cut down, everything else falls out of balance.” How could she adequately explain that the forest simply made sense. She understood its rhythms, felt a peace here that she felt nowhere else. How was it possible that some greedy men hundreds of miles away could make a decision to exchange this exquisite complexity for a wad of cash that they didn’t even need. If they would just pay a little attention they would realize that this tree, and the forest it supported, could actually support them.

She’d spent years in the forest, making a living, feeding herself and her family, becoming self-sufficient. And four years ago, she’d nearly gotten to a point where she thought she might have something to offer Peeta, might be standing on stable enough ground that she was ready to return one of his shy smiles and see where it took them. She had thought that once she was good enough for him, that he might be satisfied with what little she had to offer. But instead, he’d left and she’d gone numb. And stayed numb until his cornflower-blue eyes had met hers moments ago and jolted something inside of her awake.

xxxxx

With some effort, Peeta tore his focus away from her lips. It was mesmerizing to hear her speak like this. So many words at once in that raspy, intoxicating voice of hers. She sounded so sure, so competent, he couldn’t find anything to argue with. “Okay, but why are you endangering yourself? None of this can possibly be as important as your safety.”

She huffed out a frustrated breath. “Without this forest, I…” And Peeta knew what she wasn’t saying, that she would died without the food she’d found here. The vision of her as a bedraggled, emaciated eleven-year-old floated before him and made his stomach clench uncomfortably.  She looked away from him, her face flushed, and continued, “Well, let’s just say that the health of this forest is vital to District 12.”

Then with her eyes hardening to a sharp steely gray, she added, “I don’t expect you to understand. You left. You chose the Capitol, you care about different things.” That stung. How dare she tell him what he cared about? She didn’t have the slightest clue how much he loved this place. How much it hurt to feel unwelcome here and miss it at the same time. He hadn’t wanted to leave, it was just that no one here needed him or wanted him around.

Katniss continued, “Maybe you even look at this tree like Snow and his profiteering henchmen and all you see is board feet and dollar signs, but it’s more than that. This tree is the life of the forest. And I’m going to protect that life until those men down there see reason. Or they give up and go home. That’d be fine too.” And she set her jaw and stared out at the horizon. He knew that look, and that this conversation was over.

All of the fight just drained out of him. “I need to go,” he said.

And though she looked slightly startled, Katniss just nodded and said, “Don’t hold onto the ropes, they’ll burn your hands.” And then she was gone, scampering up the tree like a gravity-defying squirrel. His heart sank as he descended to the earth, away from her. Again.

When Peeta had divested himself of the hardhat and safety vest and soothingly explained to the irate logging company executives that no, he had not managed to drag “that damn girl” down from the tree, he headed home to the bakery. My parent’s home, he corrected himself.

But as he trudged up the back steps of the bakery, knocking his boots against the top step out of habit as he entered the kitchen, his entire body being relaxed into the familiarity of it: the warmth of the ovens, the light dusting of flour over every surface except the spotless marble counter, the smell of yeast wafting from the bowls of proofing dough.

His father walked in from the storefront and stopped in his tracks as he caught sight of Peeta standing just inside the door. Those blue eyes, the same exact shade as his own widened in surprise. “Am I dreaming?” he asked breathlessly before lunging forward to capture his youngest son in a crushing hug. Peeta couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of him. His dad must of have squeezed the sound from his lungs.

“Look at you,” his dad said, taking a step back, but leaving a large, warm hand on his shoulder as he assessed him. “How has it been four years?” He shook his head incredulously then said, “Grab an apron, I’m just about to start rolling out the dough for the cheese buns.”

“He didn’t come here to bake.” His mother’s sharp voice surprised Peeta from behind. “He’s here to do a story on that Everdeen girl nonsense. Why anyone would give her any attention for her ridiculous behavior is beyond me.” She added in an accusatory tone, “Your editor called, said you’d be staying for a few days.”

“Only a few days?” asked his father.

“I’m sure he’s anxious to get back to the Capitol,” his mother answered, pretending to brush something off of Peeta’s shirt. That was as close to affection as he was likely to get from her. In their infrequent phone conversations, his father always talked about how proud she was of Peeta for going off to Capitol and making a name for himself, but Peeta always suspected what she appreciated most was that he had left.

“Oh,” responded his father, sounding crestfallen. “Well, at least we get a couple of days.” And despite the tightening in his chest at the thought of leaving here again, Peeta grabbed an apron off the peg, scattered some flour on the countertop and turned out a bowl of dough. He closed his eyes and savored the feeling of his fingers sinking into the springy concoction, the slightly sour smell of the dough and sharp scent of the cheese, the sound of his father’s cheerful chatter and the tinkling ring of the storefront bell. God, he loved this place, perhaps even more than he’d allowed himself to remember.

xxxxx

She watched as the next day he was hoisted up into the tree again. This time, he was able to manoeuvre himself so he was sitting on one branch and could sling his arms over a nearby branch. He settled in and waited. When it became evident that he wasn’t going to leave without speaking to her, she slithered down with some reluctance.

“So you’re still here?” she asked, sarcasm oozing from her tone.

He flushed, looked sheepish. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I really do want to interview you.”

She looked at him skeptically, but gestured for him to continue.

He pressed record on his phone and said, “Okay, Katniss, tell me why this tree is so important.”

She nodded, and relaxed a little as she explained how this tree was the largest and oldest tree in this part of the forest and how the acorns from this tree had helped seed most of the trees that grew around District 12. She explained that the extensive root system of this massive tree spread underground to stabilize the hillside and was like a sponge that helped to recharge the springs that fed the Seam’s watershed. And that if you cut the sponge it half it would obviously hold less water.

It hurt to look at him, that spectacular blue of his eyes, those damned freckles brushed across the bridge of his nose, those dimples. She thought she had loved him once. But that was years ago and whatever this feeling ricocheting through her chest was, it was just an echo, a remnant of what used to be. She should be used to it, she was so hollow now, everything got lost in her bottomless heart.

And he had done this to her, made her like this. She ground her teeth together and lifted her chin. That hurt girl, who had allowed herself to hope for him and lost, was in there somewhere. But before anything else, Katniss was a fighter, a survivor and she had a point to make.

“So what are you hoping to accomplish. What good can come out of your sit-in? Do you want more attention? Are you hoping to garner more allies?” he asked.

“I want what everyone in Twelve wants, I want the Capitol to leave us alone.”

There was something electric between them, his eyes continually flitting to her lips, as if drawn like magnets. She watched as he sat up straighter, as that confidence, that steadiness he’d always exuded settled into his features.

He started to speak again, but Katniss caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She shushed him as a round bird landed a couple of branches down from their perch. Peeta looked confused, took a breath as if to ask her something, but she held up her hand, “Quail,” she said softly. “Wait, another will come. His mate.“

She smiled, just slightly, as another softly cooing, comically round bird landed a few feet away and joined the other on its branch. The male sidled up to the female and cooed softly to her. Katniss was surprised to see quail up this high, they were ground nesters and usually stayed down in the understory. It felt meaningful, like some kind of sign.

“They mate for life,” she said quietly.

Peeta leaned forward, so close that her hair brushed his arm. So close that she could hear him swallow, see the way his long golden lashes fanned across his flushed cheeks. It felt intimate, cradled together in the keystone oak, silent but for the whispers of the forest all around them.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice soft.

Peeta stiffened, something unreadable flickering across his features. He cleared his throat and flashed her the kind of smarmy smile that probably got him lots of female attention in the Capitol. Katniss just pursed her lips and looked at him skeptically, her defences rising, her walls falling back into place. The moment was lost, if it had ever existed at all. “I’m great,” he said, unconvincingly. “I just remembered that I’ve got an appointment. Gotta go. I guess I know where to find you if I need you!” He barked out a laugh that didn’t sound even a little bit mirthful.

She scowled at the blatant brush-off and said, “Keystone tree. Don’t forget to look it up.”

xxxxx

Peeta remembered something important. Something his teenaged self had known. He knew where to look for help. He needed the research capabilities of the newspaper, so he went to Haymitch’s office.

The old man’s bloodshot eyes widened in what appeared to happiness, but at the very least recognition, when he saw Peeta.

“The Prodigal son returns!” he exclaimed patting Peeta on the back.

“I just need to use your database, can I work from here?”

“You can stay here as long as you want. The desk you like by the window is all yours.”

Peeta rolled his eyes, but took his laptop over to the desk. It hurt how incredible it felt to settle into this place. The rightness of it making his skin crawl in recognition of how long he’d felt wrong, how out of place he was in his own life. He tried to ignore the ache in his chest as he sat down and got to work.

After a couple of hours, Haymitch dropped a turkey sandwich from Sae’s Deli onto the desk beside him along with a mug of dark tea. “No sugar,” Haymitch gestured to the cup.

“Thanks,” Peeta said and began to wolf down the sandwich. He was starving.

“So you’re gonna help the girl?” Peeta felt he should point out that Katniss was nearly 30 years old and that it was demeaning to refer to her as “the girl”, but this was Haymitch and there really wasn’t any use. So he just took another bite of his sandwich and nodded.

Haymitch perched on the edge of the desk and stared down at Peeta with an unnervingly sober gaze. “You know I never wanted you to take that job in the Capitol, right?” he asked gruffly.

“Is that why you entered my drawings into those competitions instead of giving me a promotion?” He wanted to sound sarcastic, but he just sounded wounded.

“I entered you in those damn competitions so that you’d see your own worth. So you’d recognize how gifted you are and stop wasting your talents. I never imagined you’d fall right into Heavensbee’s greedy clutches.”

“You gave him my number!” Peeta exclaimed indignantly.

“Yeah, so you’d tell his pompous ass to fuck off.” Haymitch said, scratching his jaw. But something in his demeanor was sheepish. Peeta was pretty sure he meant it. “One of these days, Peeta, you’re going to realize that mother of yours got it all wrong. You’re going to look around and see that everyone, including you, knows you belong here.” And with a swig of his flask and crack of his knees, Haymitch stood up.

“You’re going to help me with Katniss, right? You know how to fix this?” Peeta asked, hating the hopefulness even he could hear in his voice.

“I’ve got some wheels in motion,” Haymitch said. Peeta chuckled. Of course he did. “They just need some blue eyes and dimples to add some grease to the gears.” Haymitch slid a card out of his pocket and placed it next to Peeta’s tea, as he ambled off.

As he lay in his old room above the bakery that night, Peeta thought about what Katniss had said, about the vital importance of that tree. How its role in the forest was greater than the sum of its parts. Kinda like Katniss herself.

He had felt so useless for so long. But the dawning realization that he had the ability to help Katniss, to help his District, was settling solidly in his bones. There were so many things in this universe that were out of his control. But this wasn’t. He could do something about this. There was still time to right this wrong before it was committed.  He wanted to climb that tree and say to her face, “This is still my home. My heart still lives here.” But, he realized, he couldn’t just tell her that, he was going to have to show her. He was going to help her save the tree. And maybe somehow, in doing so, he’d find his way home.

He pulled out his laptop and got to work.

xxxxx

Katniss awoke with a gasp. She was bundled in her sleeping bag, strapped into her favorite tree nest. She could see the bright pricks of starlight stitched across the night sky. She was fine, she told herself, taking gulps of cold, sweet air. But the dust in the nightmare still threatened to choke her. The weight of the rock from the collapsed mine shaft still pressed against her chest. She whispered her father’s name into the night sky, promised him she would fight for the forest they both loved, find a way to keep her and Prim out of the mines forever.

As she settled back into the rough-barked embrace of the tree, a wish came unbidden to her mind. She imagined Peeta’s arms wrapping around her, his broad chest cradling her from behind. She allowed herself to long for the soft rumble of his voice, his cool lips on her temple, as he assured her that everything was going to be alright. She allowed herself to fall into the dream of him. But it felt more like a wish.

xxxxx

Bright and early the next morning, Peeta found himself staring up into Katniss’ tree. He adjusted the straps on his backpack, said a silent prayer that he’d survive the next few hours and started to climb.

“Katniss,” Peeta whisper-yelled into the canopy. The sun was just peeking above the horizon, sending shards of golden-pink light through the filter of leaves. He wanted to run the light though his fingers, to separate it into tendrils of pure color. He was sweating from the exertion of climbing, but it was so much better than the harness. It really was magnificent up there. Without warning, Katniss appeared about ten feet above him.

“Peeta? I didn’t think I’d see you again,” she said sleepily. And his heart broke from the intimacy that he was the first person she was seeing today, the first person to hear the raspy scrape of her morning voice, her disheveled braid and sleep-soft eyes.

“How do you sleep safely up here?” he asked, still gripping the trunk so he had to swivel his head around to see her.

Her lips quirked up in a half smile and she looked around before asking suspiciously, “You promise this isn’t some kind of trick to get me down?”

“I promise. I’d cross my heart and hope to die, but I’m pretty sure that if I move my hand I will actually die.” And then she was behind him, chuckling softly.

“If you follow me up  a couple of branches, I’ll show you one of my favorite places in the world.” Even if it meant certain death, he was pretty sure he couldn’t refuse. “Just watch my feet,” she offered and climbed up to the next branch. She reached back and grabbed his hand, pulling him up behind her before resuming her climb. He followed her without hesitation. If Peeta’s last sight was Katniss Everdeen’s ass swaying just out of reach, his life might be a fair price to pay. Moments later, Katniss had somehow gotten him nestled into a junction of three branches that formed a secure cradle, complete with a mossy backrest.

“Now this is more like it,” he sighed, feeling the solidity of the tree all around him.

“I used to come up here all the time to read,” Katniss admitted quietly. “After my dad died, it was one of the only places I ever felt safe.” And as nonsensical as it was to see safety over fifty feet in the air, as he settled into the cushiony nest, it made sense. He nodded and carefully slipped off his backpack. “On really windy nights, sometimes I sleep here,” she confided, then immediately scowled, looking regretful. Just because he comforted her in her dreams didn’t mean she could start telling him all her secrets.

“Your secret is safe with me as long as you let me sit here while I give you my proposal.” He winked and pulled out the thermos of cocoa and tin of cheese buns.

“Did Prim tell you?” Katniss asked, her eyes wide with longing.

“Tell me what?” he asked, wanting nothing more in this world than to touch her, to run his thumb over the softness of her cheek.

“That cheese buns are my favorite.”

Peeta grinned at her, but didn’t confess that he had watched her devour one in tenth grade and had to do some creative rearranging to hide his body’s response to her licking her fingers clean.

As Katniss inhaled the first cheese bun he handed her the thermos top full of cocoa and instructed her to dip the next bun. She looked at him skeptically then shrugged and complied. The resulting moan of pleasure had him pulling his backpack back onto his lap.

In an effort to keep his body in check, he laid out his plan for her. He asked her about this tree, what she knew about it, what it meant to her. And with the sun rising behind her, creating a spectacular backdrop of vibrant pink and orange streaks through a cloudless morning blue, Katniss perched above the treetops and told her story of the forest. She talked about wild strawberries in the spring and trout in the summer, hickory nuts in the fall and mushrooms in the winter. She told about the quail pairs who mate for life, the deer who steal silently through the undergrowth, the music of the wind through the trees. She painted the picture of the paradise, the subsistence she had found.

And Peeta sat reverently in the tree’s embrace and filmed her on his iphone.

When she ran out of words, she turned to face him with flushed cheeks and shining eyes.  

“So,” he asked, clearing the lump from his throat, “Is it fair to say that the forest saved your life?”

“No,” she cocked her head slightly, “You saved my life.” Peeta drew in a sharp breath at the mention of the thing that lay between them. She continued, “The forest allowed me to keep saving it. Over and over again. My dad always told me, there’s food in this forest, if you know how to find it. There’s also the means to give a girl who’s never had the odds in her favor, choices in her life.”

Peeta turned the camera on himself and added in a voice clear and strong, “This tree is the beating heart of the forest. This woman is the beating heart of District 12. Let’s make sure we save them both.”

“So here’s the plan.” He outlined the idea to distribute the video online, how his article had gotten the attention of the conservation groups, who were rallying their constituencies, their attorneys and their donors. He explained Haymitch’s idea of the protective easement and how the District would own the lands clear to the ridgeline.

He knew her private nature, but as much as the idea of being a symbol probably repulsed her, she agreed that the concept was sound and acquiesced to her role.

As Peeta gathered up his things and donned his backpack, Katniss laid a feather-light hand on his arm. As hard as he’d tried to keep this professional, to focus only on the story and doing what was right, her touch raised gooseflesh up his arm and he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“Thank you, Peeta. I appreciate your help.” She smiled, admitting reluctantly, “It’s really nice to have some company.”

“Do you have wifi?” he joked, “I think I can make this my new office.”

She rolled her eyes, but as he climbed down from his perch, he felt more like himself than he had in years.

Peeta spent the rest of the day with Haymitch and Mayor Undersee finalizing the acquisition of the forestlands with the heritage oak sitting like the crowned jewel in the middle. By the late afternoon, he strolled out to Katniss’ tree as the logging company broke down their operation and left the District.

Katniss was perched far out on a tiny branch, looking like she might take flight. Peeta called to her as he made his way up to her as high as he dared.

“What’s happening?” she called as she met him halfway.

“You did it,” he grinned. “They’re going to leave you alone.”

His heart nearly stopped as she grinned right back, “Don’t you mean, they’re going to leave us alone?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I do.”

He called out to her as she climbed out of reach, “Where are you going?”

“To grab my things. I cannot wait to take a proper shower.”

A couple of hours later, Katniss Everdeen was knocking on the backdoor of the bakery. Peeta tried to temper the smile that was making his cheeks ache as he pulled his apron off over his head.

“Hi,” he said, stepping out to meet her on the porch.

“Looks like I owe you again, Mellark,” said Katniss, shaking her head miserably. “Let me buy you a beer. It’s the least I can do.”

“My preferred payment method is actually kisses.” Peeta waggled his eyebrows at her, “C’mon, Everdeen, pucker up.”

She scowled at his teasing. But she didn’t flinch when he reached for her hand.

They walked down to Rooba’s, the only bar in town. Peeta was so distracted by Katniss’ ass as she walked in the door a couple of steps ahead of him, the resounding cheer from the bar patrons made him jump.

They sat down at the bar next to Haymitch and accepted the collective back pats, free drinks and congratulations on their small victory over the Capitol. When Gale came up and wrapped Katniss in a bear hug, Peeta slid off his seat to give them some privacy, though it made him a little queasy to see their knees touch as Gale slouched onto the barstool next to her.

But a couple of minutes later, Katniss appeared beside him. She levered up on her toes and leaned into him, pressing her breasts against his arm as she whispered into his ear, “I kinda still owe you that drink. Wanna walk me home?” Boy did he ever.

It was a balmy summer’s night, the kind that he’d loved as a child because every window was left open. The crickets serenaded them as they meandered through town along the edge of the Seam to an unremarkable three story apartment building at the edge of the forest.

“This is me,” Katniss said, gesturing to the door, which had been propped open with a rock. She seemed shy and had trouble meeting his eyes when she said, “I really can’t thank you enough, Peeta.”

“We made a pretty good team,” he said.

“Yeah, I guess when all is said and done, we did,” she responded, a small smile playing at her lips. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off of her mouth. He cleared this throat.

“So… I guess-” he began.

But she cut him off with a blurted, “Do you want to come up for a drink?”

“Yeah,” he breathed in relief, “I’d love to.”

They stood in front of her elevator for a moment, stealing glances at each other, her shifting impatiently from foot to foot as she watched the down arrow, him chuckling nervously from time to time.

“Stairs?” she asked, gesturing to the stairwell as she took a step towards it.

“Right behind you.” They hustled up the steps, arriving breathless on the third floor.

He leaned against the wall, watching as she tried to get the key into the lock. She cursed softly under her breath in frustration and he couldn’t stand it for a second longer, he had to touch her. He reached over and tucked a loose lock of her hair behind her ear, letting his fingers ghost over the shell of her ear and glide down her neck.

She exhaled a quivering breath and melted into his touch. Then those silvery eyes met his as she said, “If you want me to get this door open, you better keep your hands to yourself.” He smiled, hearing the key slide into the lock and felt the jerk of her body and she wrenched the door open.

Once he was inside, she threw her keys in the bowl by the door and shimmied out of her light sweater. She reached for him, but he was slumped against her door, his eyes closed. It was the smell. Her apartment smelled like forest and burnt toast and coal dust. It smelled like home.

He felt her cool hands on his flushed face and opened his eyes to find her staring at him with concern. “You okay?” she asked.

“Better than okay,” he said, his voice quavering slightly. He reached up and took one of her hands in his. She smiled that soft smile that he was rapidly becoming addicted to, the one that made her eyes crinkle, and led him into the small apartment. He wanted to spend a month just taking in every detail of her living space. This was where she lived! He never wanted to leave this sacred place.

She led him into the kitchen. He was so close behind her, he could feel the warmth radiating from her body, just like he had in the tree. He started to get hard just remembering it, and admonished his body to slow the fuck down. They were just walking to the kitchen, for Christ sake. His dick was getting a little ahead of itself.

Katniss stood at the counter opening a cupboard door before turning to look up at him, her lush bottom lip firmly between her teeth.

“I, ah, don’t really have anything to drink. Not unless I can find that flask Haymitch gave me.” She shrugged, looking apologetic.

“I’m not remotely thirsty,” he said, licking his bottom lip as he tugged hers gently from between her teeth. “But I’m absolutely dying to kiss you.”

“Thank fuck,” she sighed, levering up on her toes to capture his lips in a breath-stealing kiss.

He grabbed the counter behind her and held on to steady himself as he surrendered to the frenzy of lips and tongue and gently nipping teeth that had become his entire reality. So this must be what Haymitch meant by living in the moment. His entire being was so rooted in the experience of finally kissing her, so consumed by it that there was no room for any other thought.

Her arms were wrapped around him, one fisting the back of his shirt from his shoulder, the other snaking under the fabric, both grasping at his back.

“Touch me, Peeta. Please!” she demanded and he practically growled in response.

He released his death grip on the counter and wrapped both of his arms around her, squeezing her tightly against his body. She moaned against his mouth and he hoisted her up on the counter and pushed between her legs.

He was achingly hard.

They began to touch each other. And as their clothes fell to the floor, the world fell away, replaced by the certainty that there was nobody and nothing but the two of them and this perfect moment that had been in the making for decades. When she was finally naked before him, Peeta dropped to kneel before her, kissing her hip bone, then trailing his lips along the petal-soft skin below her belly button.

A soft whimper escaped her as she gripped his shoulders. “Bed,” she moaned, as he ran his fingertips up the back of her knees. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed laying on a bed.” His responding chuckle was met by her shocked gasp as he stood suddenly grabbing her ass in both his hands and hoisted her up until her strong legs were securely wrapped around him.

It was his turn to moan as he felt the slick heat of her against his skin. He carried her into her bedroom and laid her reverently on the bed. He ran his fingertips down between her breast down the length of her belly before kneeling and ghosting his lips over her pussy. She squirmed against him as he slowly ran his tongue up the length of her. As he feathered his tongue over her clit she buried both her hands in his curls and pulled his head up. “I’m so close,” she said almost apologetically, “and I want you inside me when I come.”

Peeta trembled as he slid into her wet heat, choked back a sob at how good, how unbelievably right, she felt. He tried to go slowly, to make it last, but as she ran her hands up his back and into his hair and he couldn’t help deepening his thrusts.

“Oh, please, Peeta,” she whispered and he flipped them over so she could control this, set their rhythm. He had never seen anything as treacherously beautiful as Katniss Everdeen coming undone above him. She arched her back, her pussy clenching around him and he surrendered to her, pouring his love, his devotion into her body in hot waves of ecstasy.

xxxxx

As she gazed down at Peeta’s beautiful face contorted in pleasure, Katniss accepted that she wanted to be close to him. Part of him. She wanted to look at that lovely face forever, watch lines form at the corners of his eyes from the endless smiling, the gold of his hair fade to gray. She wanted a lifetime with Peeta Mellark.

As soon as their bodies stopped spasming and they caught their breath, Peeta popped up and pushed the window wide, bathing Katniss’ sweaty body in a soft breeze and slivers of moonlight. He collapsed next to her and propped himself up on one elbow. He traced patterns on over her breasts and belly before asking, “So how are we going to do this?”

“Do what?” she asked, rolling slightly to kiss his shoulder.

“Make a life together, obviously.” He rolled his eyes and collapsed onto his back, pulling her against him.

“Oh, that,” she responded, stretching out and slinging a knee over his thigh. “I can’t live in the Capitol.”

“Oh, me neither,” he said shaking his head like that he’d never heard anything sillier.

“But what about your job? Your things?” she started to ask.

He cut her off, “I’m pretty sure Plutarch never wants to see me again and they can keep my stuff. I’m never making the mistake of leaving here again.”

“Good plan,” she said, yawning contentedly.

The next morning as they watched the story unfold online, watched Katniss become a symbol of forest conservation, Peeta kissed her nose.

“You’re basically the Lorax. But cuter.”

She narrowed his eyes at him and he held up his hands in defence and asked, “Less cute?”

Then she lunged at him and kissed the adorable grin right off his face.

#Everlark birthday drabbles #aquarpisc #appleblossomgirl0305

[almajonesnjna]

Dear Self, I Love You.

I recently gave a client the assignment that she had to rave about herself.

This is something I do in my workshops as well– I force beautiful, wonderful women to endure the horrendous torture that is standing up in front of a group and bragging about herself honestly, until the timer is up.

This exercise might sound kind of fun, but I assure you it brings up some really interesting stuff. It’s incredibly uncomfortable, as a woman, to break the unspoken law that we must be humble and modest.

I once watched a woman fight such an extraordinary inner battle as she stood there sweating and crying, that if I hadn’t given her the assignment, I might have thought she was trying to will herself to transform into a werewolf.

This inner battle is exactly why I assign it.

The person doing the bragging often learns a lot about how powerfully she has bought into certain social guidelines, and it opens an important discussion on what it would look like to really “own” your strengths, gifts, power, and beauty.

But something even more interesting often happens to the observers.

Watching a woman brag about herself is kind of shocking. It’s startling, and disorienting. We are experientially blind to the experience of watching a woman truly own her greatness– it has a way of making your brain go WAIT WHAT’S HAPPENING NOW?!

That’s why I want to share the following guest-post, written by a client.

This woman took my assignment (rave about yourself unapologetically) and turned it into a beautiful blog post, and as I read it I felt the familiar tingles in my brain.

This kind of self-celebration by a woman is powerful, because it’s so rare. I want you to read her work (I’m posting it below exactly as she wrote it) and see what comes up for you.

Does it make you uncomfortable? Inspired? Brain-glitchy?

Why?

If you feel so inspired, I want to hear from you, too. Will you rave about yourself in a video or written post?

Will you celebrate the shit out of yourself, just to see how it feels?

If so, please tag me in it so I can see, on Instagram or Facebook.

Without further ado, here is my second-ever guest post, shared with permission by Kate. Her original post can be found on her brand new blog: Kewe Life, here.

I’M GOING TO A RAVE.

Have we met? If not, nice to meet you. I’m pretty awesome. Not in a boastful or cocky way, but in a subtle, confident kind of way. Whether we know each other or not, sit back, relax, and settle in. Because I’m about to throw my subtlety to the wind in a radical exclamation of my love for myself.

Have you secretly admired someone but were never quite able to muster the courage to tell that person what you thought? Ever realize that person you were secretly admiring was yourself? In a long overdue acknowledgement of my awesomeness, I invite you to celebrate me with me as I finally send my lifelong crush a love letter.

And so, let the rave begin.

Dear Self,  

You’re a woman. An awesome woman. A powerful woman. A strong woman. A brave woman. A devoted woman. A curious woman. An affectionate woman. A kind woman. A caring woman.

You impress me every day with your bravery. Seriously, that shit is in-fucking-spiring. You wake up, get out of bed (most days), brush your teeth (most days, hah), then you go out into the world, and you show up, fully. Day in and day out. There you are. Standing, waiting, ready to work. To work on yourself, to work to connect with your soul, to work to sort through all the dark, messy clutter to make peace with yourself. You do all the work. 

You’re organized as fuck. Honestly, sometimes it’s concerning. But mostly it’s amazing. 

You want to help others. You seek out ways to. You are drawn to the desire to effect change. To lend a hand. Or an ear. Or a shoulder. Or whatever you can manage to share. 

You’re starting to learn boundaries. Boundaries to help yourself flourish, not boundaries to tame your desires. You’re learning the power of “no”. Not in a defiant way, but in a way that is caring of your own needs.

You say “thank you”, more often than not, now when someone compliments you. You don’t shy away from the light of your life. You walk into it, you welcome it, you seek that light. It wakes you up.

Superficial, you are not. Depth is your power. Depth of self, depth of connection, depth of commitment.  

Your ass is amazing. Truly. It’s a work of art. A creative expression of your strength. Powerful, ready to work.  

Your smile is incredible. Your eyes are beautiful. Your laugh is warm. Your giggle is endearing. Your wit is intoxicating.   

You are strong. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally. You do not sacrifice your kindness for your strength. You are cognizant of your rough edges and you look to buff them when you think it’s necessary. Because you care deeply about other people. About their feelings, their hopes, dreams, wishes, about their whole beings. You are willing to get hurt a little (or, sometimes, a lot) in the quest for connection. Because without connection, what is there? 

You stand really fucking tall. You are confident. You are funny. You are an amazing woman. You are generous. You are charismatic. You are goofy. You are secretly a great dancer, with enviable rhythm but also sometimes two left feet. Please share your dancing with the Universe; I’m sure it would love to see more of it. 

You are accepting. You are gifted. You are smart. You are inquisitive. You are headstrong. You are adventurous. You are talented. You are ballsy. You are sarcastic. You are interested. 

You lean in. You open the doors to the dark places. You walk boldly into the face of fear and shame and guilt and those big, scary emotions and you ask them to come out into the light. You see your demons as your muses. You seek to see the good in people, in the world, in life.  

You are beautiful. You are sexy. You are curvy and bendy and soft. You are hard and tough and gritty. You were made to do more. To bring joy. To share your experiences. To offer guidance. To offer support. To embrace life’s challenges as gifts.  

You are all I ever need you to be. You are everything you were meant to be. 

You have a voice. It’s big. Bold. Beautiful. Courageous. Inspiring. Funny.  

You’re an awesome aunt. Aunt Tatie, to be exact. You give, whatever you can, whenever you can.  

You are a writer. Your words were meant to be shared. Your voice, meant to be heard. The sharing of your words liberates your soul, eases your angst, soothes your heart and mind. Your writing is for you. 

You’re succeeding in a male-dominated world. Some might even say you’re thriving. You’ve been promoted, rewarded, fought over. You make decisions for yourself.  

You cook. You grill. You bake. You broil. You blend. You chop. You build. You demolish. You garden (meh). You clean. You vacuum. You polish. You launder. You iron. You steam. You fold. You straighten. You refresh. You are curious. You tend to whatever it is your heart wants.

You’re willing to suffer in order to find your own happiness. Your willing to suffer for others. You’re willing to suffer for peace. Because suffering is temporary in the name of peace. Peace is subjective. You choose peace for yourself.

You’re on a path to self-identity, self-confidence, self-definition that will lead to amazing things. You’re making your own identity. Arriving at it through hard work and a shitload of help.  

You’re humble. You ask for help when you need it. You raise your hand when you don’t understand. You seek clarity when you’re confused. 

You overthink things. That’s okay. Doing so has developed in you an awareness of human emotions and experiences that allows you to uniquely connect with others. You’re okay if those other people don’t want to connect. 

You’re not ready yet to share yourself with someone else. You’re not yet whole enough to fully let someone else in. You’re strong as fuck for putting your own needs first. You are not alone. Do you hear me? You are not alone. I am here. We are enough. For now and for always. We. Are. Enough. 

You’re trusting. Eventually. Until that point, you’re protective and that’s an admirable mechanism of self-care.

When you couldn’t find the words, you baked. You baked dozens and dozens of cookies. And somehow, your love was what people remember from those dark days when we lost a loved one too soon. You saved people with your kindness, with your caring, with your generosity. 

You are awesome. Your calluses and blisters and scars and bruises and stretch marks and cellulite and saggy skin and veins and freckles and beauty marks and blemishes and skin tags and hair and torn cuticles and dry skin and squishiness and tautness and muscles and fat and all the things that make a woman’s body, they are the fabric of you, they weave together so beautifully, they tell the history of your very amazing body. The history of your very amazing body that once weighed 192lbs. The history of your very amazing body that once weighed 142lbs. The history of your very amazing body that now weighs somewhere in between.

The history of your very amazing body that has withstood your hatred, your restriction, your loathing, your attempts at sabotage, your bingeing, your embarrassment, your shame, your fear, your downright disdain for this body you’ve been given. That history is history.

We now have a loving relationship where cellulite is sexy (say what?!), where stretch marks are womanly, where bruises and scrapes and blisters are reminders that you’re fragile, where calluses are reminders that you’re adaptive. Where squishiness is a reminder that you’re fucking human, where torn cuticles are reminders that manicures aren’t miracles, where muscles are a reminder that the work is never done.

You apologize. Because you’re strong like that.

You respect your body. You value serenity.  

You’re adventurous. You try new stuff. You’re not afraid to fail. You are willing to change. You’re ready to adapt. You’re pretty fucking awesome. You’re resilient. Like the waves that keep on crashing, you keep on showing up, methodically, religiously, consistently. 

With all the love, 

Me

P.S. #thanksbuddy

The post Dear Self, I Love You. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2fbEGZv

#Dear Self #I Love You.

[albertcaldwellne]

Dear Self, I Love You.

I recently gave a client the assignment that she had to rave about herself.

This is something I do in my workshops as well– I force beautiful, wonderful women to endure the horrendous torture that is standing up in front of a group and bragging about herself honestly, until the timer is up.

This exercise might sound kind of fun, but I assure you it brings up some really interesting stuff. It’s incredibly uncomfortable, as a woman, to break the unspoken law that we must be humble and modest.

I once watched a woman fight such an extraordinary inner battle as she stood there sweating and crying, that if I hadn’t given her the assignment, I might have thought she was trying to will herself to transform into a werewolf.

This inner battle is exactly why I assign it.

The person doing the bragging often learns a lot about how powerfully she has bought into certain social guidelines, and it opens an important discussion on what it would look like to really “own” your strengths, gifts, power, and beauty.

But something even more interesting often happens to the observers.

Watching a woman brag about herself is kind of shocking. It’s startling, and disorienting. We are experientially blind to the experience of watching a woman truly own her greatness– it has a way of making your brain go WAIT WHAT’S HAPPENING NOW?!

That’s why I want to share the following guest-post, written by a client.

This woman took my assignment (rave about yourself unapologetically) and turned it into a beautiful blog post, and as I read it I felt the familiar tingles in my brain.

This kind of self-celebration by a woman is powerful, because it’s so rare. I want you to read her work (I’m posting it below exactly as she wrote it) and see what comes up for you.

Does it make you uncomfortable? Inspired? Brain-glitchy?

Why?

If you feel so inspired, I want to hear from you, too. Will you rave about yourself in a video or written post?

Will you celebrate the shit out of yourself, just to see how it feels?

If so, please tag me in it so I can see, on Instagram or Facebook.

Without further ado, here is my second-ever guest post, shared with permission by Kate. Her original post can be found on her brand new blog: Kewe Life, here.

I’M GOING TO A RAVE.

Have we met? If not, nice to meet you. I’m pretty awesome. Not in a boastful or cocky way, but in a subtle, confident kind of way. Whether we know each other or not, sit back, relax, and settle in. Because I’m about to throw my subtlety to the wind in a radical exclamation of my love for myself.

Have you secretly admired someone but were never quite able to muster the courage to tell that person what you thought? Ever realize that person you were secretly admiring was yourself? In a long overdue acknowledgement of my awesomeness, I invite you to celebrate me with me as I finally send my lifelong crush a love letter.

And so, let the rave begin.

Dear Self,  

You’re a woman. An awesome woman. A powerful woman. A strong woman. A brave woman. A devoted woman. A curious woman. An affectionate woman. A kind woman. A caring woman.

You impress me every day with your bravery. Seriously, that shit is in-fucking-spiring. You wake up, get out of bed (most days), brush your teeth (most days, hah), then you go out into the world, and you show up, fully. Day in and day out. There you are. Standing, waiting, ready to work. To work on yourself, to work to connect with your soul, to work to sort through all the dark, messy clutter to make peace with yourself. You do all the work. 

You’re organized as fuck. Honestly, sometimes it’s concerning. But mostly it’s amazing. 

You want to help others. You seek out ways to. You are drawn to the desire to effect change. To lend a hand. Or an ear. Or a shoulder. Or whatever you can manage to share. 

You’re starting to learn boundaries. Boundaries to help yourself flourish, not boundaries to tame your desires. You’re learning the power of “no”. Not in a defiant way, but in a way that is caring of your own needs.

You say “thank you”, more often than not, now when someone compliments you. You don’t shy away from the light of your life. You walk into it, you welcome it, you seek that light. It wakes you up.

Superficial, you are not. Depth is your power. Depth of self, depth of connection, depth of commitment.  

Your ass is amazing. Truly. It’s a work of art. A creative expression of your strength. Powerful, ready to work.  

Your smile is incredible. Your eyes are beautiful. Your laugh is warm. Your giggle is endearing. Your wit is intoxicating.   

You are strong. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally. You do not sacrifice your kindness for your strength. You are cognizant of your rough edges and you look to buff them when you think it’s necessary. Because you care deeply about other people. About their feelings, their hopes, dreams, wishes, about their whole beings. You are willing to get hurt a little (or, sometimes, a lot) in the quest for connection. Because without connection, what is there? 

You stand really fucking tall. You are confident. You are funny. You are an amazing woman. You are generous. You are charismatic. You are goofy. You are secretly a great dancer, with enviable rhythm but also sometimes two left feet. Please share your dancing with the Universe; I’m sure it would love to see more of it. 

You are accepting. You are gifted. You are smart. You are inquisitive. You are headstrong. You are adventurous. You are talented. You are ballsy. You are sarcastic. You are interested. 

You lean in. You open the doors to the dark places. You walk boldly into the face of fear and shame and guilt and those big, scary emotions and you ask them to come out into the light. You see your demons as your muses. You seek to see the good in people, in the world, in life.  

You are beautiful. You are sexy. You are curvy and bendy and soft. You are hard and tough and gritty. You were made to do more. To bring joy. To share your experiences. To offer guidance. To offer support. To embrace life’s challenges as gifts.  

You are all I ever need you to be. You are everything you were meant to be. 

You have a voice. It’s big. Bold. Beautiful. Courageous. Inspiring. Funny.  

You’re an awesome aunt. Aunt Tatie, to be exact. You give, whatever you can, whenever you can.  

You are a writer. Your words were meant to be shared. Your voice, meant to be heard. The sharing of your words liberates your soul, eases your angst, soothes your heart and mind. Your writing is for you. 

You’re succeeding in a male-dominated world. Some might even say you’re thriving. You’ve been promoted, rewarded, fought over. You make decisions for yourself.  

You cook. You grill. You bake. You broil. You blend. You chop. You build. You demolish. You garden (meh). You clean. You vacuum. You polish. You launder. You iron. You steam. You fold. You straighten. You refresh. You are curious. You tend to whatever it is your heart wants.

You’re willing to suffer in order to find your own happiness. Your willing to suffer for others. You’re willing to suffer for peace. Because suffering is temporary in the name of peace. Peace is subjective. You choose peace for yourself.

You’re on a path to self-identity, self-confidence, self-definition that will lead to amazing things. You’re making your own identity. Arriving at it through hard work and a shitload of help.  

You’re humble. You ask for help when you need it. You raise your hand when you don’t understand. You seek clarity when you’re confused. 

You overthink things. That’s okay. Doing so has developed in you an awareness of human emotions and experiences that allows you to uniquely connect with others. You’re okay if those other people don’t want to connect. 

You’re not ready yet to share yourself with someone else. You’re not yet whole enough to fully let someone else in. You’re strong as fuck for putting your own needs first. You are not alone. Do you hear me? You are not alone. I am here. We are enough. For now and for always. We. Are. Enough. 

You’re trusting. Eventually. Until that point, you’re protective and that’s an admirable mechanism of self-care.

When you couldn’t find the words, you baked. You baked dozens and dozens of cookies. And somehow, your love was what people remember from those dark days when we lost a loved one too soon. You saved people with your kindness, with your caring, with your generosity. 

You are awesome. Your calluses and blisters and scars and bruises and stretch marks and cellulite and saggy skin and veins and freckles and beauty marks and blemishes and skin tags and hair and torn cuticles and dry skin and squishiness and tautness and muscles and fat and all the things that make a woman’s body, they are the fabric of you, they weave together so beautifully, they tell the history of your very amazing body. The history of your very amazing body that once weighed 192lbs. The history of your very amazing body that once weighed 142lbs. The history of your very amazing body that now weighs somewhere in between.

The history of your very amazing body that has withstood your hatred, your restriction, your loathing, your attempts at sabotage, your bingeing, your embarrassment, your shame, your fear, your downright disdain for this body you’ve been given. That history is history.

We now have a loving relationship where cellulite is sexy (say what?!), where stretch marks are womanly, where bruises and scrapes and blisters are reminders that you’re fragile, where calluses are reminders that you’re adaptive. Where squishiness is a reminder that you’re fucking human, where torn cuticles are reminders that manicures aren’t miracles, where muscles are a reminder that the work is never done.

You apologize. Because you’re strong like that.

You respect your body. You value serenity.  

You’re adventurous. You try new stuff. You’re not afraid to fail. You are willing to change. You’re ready to adapt. You’re pretty fucking awesome. You’re resilient. Like the waves that keep on crashing, you keep on showing up, methodically, religiously, consistently. 

With all the love, 

Me

P.S. #thanksbuddy

The post Dear Self, I Love You. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2fbEGZv

#Dear Self #I Love You.

[neilmillerne]

Dear Self, I Love You.

I recently gave a client the assignment that she had to rave about herself.

This is something I do in my workshops as well– I force beautiful, wonderful women to endure the horrendous torture that is standing up in front of a group and bragging about herself honestly, until the timer is up.

This exercise might sound kind of fun, but I assure you it brings up some really interesting stuff. It’s incredibly uncomfortable, as a woman, to break the unspoken law that we must be humble and modest.

I once watched a woman fight such an extraordinary inner battle as she stood there sweating and crying, that if I hadn’t given her the assignment, I might have thought she was trying to will herself to transform into a werewolf.

This inner battle is exactly why I assign it.

The person doing the bragging often learns a lot about how powerfully she has bought into certain social guidelines, and it opens an important discussion on what it would look like to really “own” your strengths, gifts, power, and beauty.

But something even more interesting often happens to the observers.

Watching a woman brag about herself is kind of shocking. It’s startling, and disorienting. We are experientially blind to the experience of watching a woman truly own her greatness– it has a way of making your brain go WAIT WHAT’S HAPPENING NOW?!

That’s why I want to share the following guest-post, written by a client.

This woman took my assignment (rave about yourself unapologetically) and turned it into a beautiful blog post, and as I read it I felt the familiar tingles in my brain.

This kind of self-celebration by a woman is powerful, because it’s so rare. I want you to read her work (I’m posting it below exactly as she wrote it) and see what comes up for you.

Does it make you uncomfortable? Inspired? Brain-glitchy?

Why?

If you feel so inspired, I want to hear from you, too. Will you rave about yourself in a video or written post?

Will you celebrate the shit out of yourself, just to see how it feels?

If so, please tag me in it so I can see, on Instagram or Facebook.

Without further ado, here is my second-ever guest post, shared with permission by Kate. Her original post can be found on her brand new blog: Kewe Life, here.

I’M GOING TO A RAVE.

Have we met? If not, nice to meet you. I’m pretty awesome. Not in a boastful or cocky way, but in a subtle, confident kind of way. Whether we know each other or not, sit back, relax, and settle in. Because I’m about to throw my subtlety to the wind in a radical exclamation of my love for myself.

Have you secretly admired someone but were never quite able to muster the courage to tell that person what you thought? Ever realize that person you were secretly admiring was yourself? In a long overdue acknowledgement of my awesomeness, I invite you to celebrate me with me as I finally send my lifelong crush a love letter.

And so, let the rave begin.

Dear Self,  

You’re a woman. An awesome woman. A powerful woman. A strong woman. A brave woman. A devoted woman. A curious woman. An affectionate woman. A kind woman. A caring woman.

You impress me every day with your bravery. Seriously, that shit is in-fucking-spiring. You wake up, get out of bed (most days), brush your teeth (most days, hah), then you go out into the world, and you show up, fully. Day in and day out. There you are. Standing, waiting, ready to work. To work on yourself, to work to connect with your soul, to work to sort through all the dark, messy clutter to make peace with yourself. You do all the work. 

You’re organized as fuck. Honestly, sometimes it’s concerning. But mostly it’s amazing. 

You want to help others. You seek out ways to. You are drawn to the desire to effect change. To lend a hand. Or an ear. Or a shoulder. Or whatever you can manage to share. 

You’re starting to learn boundaries. Boundaries to help yourself flourish, not boundaries to tame your desires. You’re learning the power of “no”. Not in a defiant way, but in a way that is caring of your own needs.

You say “thank you”, more often than not, now when someone compliments you. You don’t shy away from the light of your life. You walk into it, you welcome it, you seek that light. It wakes you up.

Superficial, you are not. Depth is your power. Depth of self, depth of connection, depth of commitment.  

Your ass is amazing. Truly. It’s a work of art. A creative expression of your strength. Powerful, ready to work.  

Your smile is incredible. Your eyes are beautiful. Your laugh is warm. Your giggle is endearing. Your wit is intoxicating.   

You are strong. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally. You do not sacrifice your kindness for your strength. You are cognizant of your rough edges and you look to buff them when you think it’s necessary. Because you care deeply about other people. About their feelings, their hopes, dreams, wishes, about their whole beings. You are willing to get hurt a little (or, sometimes, a lot) in the quest for connection. Because without connection, what is there? 

You stand really fucking tall. You are confident. You are funny. You are an amazing woman. You are generous. You are charismatic. You are goofy. You are secretly a great dancer, with enviable rhythm but also sometimes two left feet. Please share your dancing with the Universe; I’m sure it would love to see more of it. 

You are accepting. You are gifted. You are smart. You are inquisitive. You are headstrong. You are adventurous. You are talented. You are ballsy. You are sarcastic. You are interested. 

You lean in. You open the doors to the dark places. You walk boldly into the face of fear and shame and guilt and those big, scary emotions and you ask them to come out into the light. You see your demons as your muses. You seek to see the good in people, in the world, in life.  

You are beautiful. You are sexy. You are curvy and bendy and soft. You are hard and tough and gritty. You were made to do more. To bring joy. To share your experiences. To offer guidance. To offer support. To embrace life’s challenges as gifts.  

You are all I ever need you to be. You are everything you were meant to be. 

You have a voice. It’s big. Bold. Beautiful. Courageous. Inspiring. Funny.  

You’re an awesome aunt. Aunt Tatie, to be exact. You give, whatever you can, whenever you can.  

You are a writer. Your words were meant to be shared. Your voice, meant to be heard. The sharing of your words liberates your soul, eases your angst, soothes your heart and mind. Your writing is for you. 

You’re succeeding in a male-dominated world. Some might even say you’re thriving. You’ve been promoted, rewarded, fought over. You make decisions for yourself.  

You cook. You grill. You bake. You broil. You blend. You chop. You build. You demolish. You garden (meh). You clean. You vacuum. You polish. You launder. You iron. You steam. You fold. You straighten. You refresh. You are curious. You tend to whatever it is your heart wants.

You’re willing to suffer in order to find your own happiness. Your willing to suffer for others. You’re willing to suffer for peace. Because suffering is temporary in the name of peace. Peace is subjective. You choose peace for yourself.

You’re on a path to self-identity, self-confidence, self-definition that will lead to amazing things. You’re making your own identity. Arriving at it through hard work and a shitload of help.  

You’re humble. You ask for help when you need it. You raise your hand when you don’t understand. You seek clarity when you’re confused. 

You overthink things. That’s okay. Doing so has developed in you an awareness of human emotions and experiences that allows you to uniquely connect with others. You’re okay if those other people don’t want to connect. 

You’re not ready yet to share yourself with someone else. You’re not yet whole enough to fully let someone else in. You’re strong as fuck for putting your own needs first. You are not alone. Do you hear me? You are not alone. I am here. We are enough. For now and for always. We. Are. Enough. 

You’re trusting. Eventually. Until that point, you’re protective and that’s an admirable mechanism of self-care.

When you couldn’t find the words, you baked. You baked dozens and dozens of cookies. And somehow, your love was what people remember from those dark days when we lost a loved one too soon. You saved people with your kindness, with your caring, with your generosity. 

You are awesome. Your calluses and blisters and scars and bruises and stretch marks and cellulite and saggy skin and veins and freckles and beauty marks and blemishes and skin tags and hair and torn cuticles and dry skin and squishiness and tautness and muscles and fat and all the things that make a woman’s body, they are the fabric of you, they weave together so beautifully, they tell the history of your very amazing body. The history of your very amazing body that once weighed 192lbs. The history of your very amazing body that once weighed 142lbs. The history of your very amazing body that now weighs somewhere in between.

The history of your very amazing body that has withstood your hatred, your restriction, your loathing, your attempts at sabotage, your bingeing, your embarrassment, your shame, your fear, your downright disdain for this body you’ve been given. That history is history.

We now have a loving relationship where cellulite is sexy (say what?!), where stretch marks are womanly, where bruises and scrapes and blisters are reminders that you’re fragile, where calluses are reminders that you’re adaptive. Where squishiness is a reminder that you’re fucking human, where torn cuticles are reminders that manicures aren’t miracles, where muscles are a reminder that the work is never done.

You apologize. Because you’re strong like that.

You respect your body. You value serenity.  

You’re adventurous. You try new stuff. You’re not afraid to fail. You are willing to change. You’re ready to adapt. You’re pretty fucking awesome. You’re resilient. Like the waves that keep on crashing, you keep on showing up, methodically, religiously, consistently. 

With all the love, 

Me

P.S. #thanksbuddy

The post Dear Self, I Love You. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2fbEGZv

#Dear Self #I Love You.

[joshuabradleyn]

Dear Self, I Love You.

I recently gave a client the assignment that she had to rave about herself.

This is something I do in my workshops as well– I force beautiful, wonderful women to endure the horrendous torture that is standing up in front of a group and bragging about herself honestly, until the timer is up.

This exercise might sound kind of fun, but I assure you it brings up some really interesting stuff. It’s incredibly uncomfortable, as a woman, to break the unspoken law that we must be humble and modest.

I once watched a woman fight such an extraordinary inner battle as she stood there sweating and crying, that if I hadn’t given her the assignment, I might have thought she was trying to will herself to transform into a werewolf.

This inner battle is exactly why I assign it.

The person doing the bragging often learns a lot about how powerfully she has bought into certain social guidelines, and it opens an important discussion on what it would look like to really “own” your strengths, gifts, power, and beauty.

But something even more interesting often happens to the observers.

Watching a woman brag about herself is kind of shocking. It’s startling, and disorienting. We are experientially blind to the experience of watching a woman truly own her greatness– it has a way of making your brain go WAIT WHAT’S HAPPENING NOW?!

That’s why I want to share the following guest-post, written by a client.

This woman took my assignment (rave about yourself unapologetically) and turned it into a beautiful blog post, and as I read it I felt the familiar tingles in my brain.

This kind of self-celebration by a woman is powerful, because it’s so rare. I want you to read her work (I’m posting it below exactly as she wrote it) and see what comes up for you.

Does it make you uncomfortable? Inspired? Brain-glitchy?

Why?

If you feel so inspired, I want to hear from you, too. Will you rave about yourself in a video or written post?

Will you celebrate the shit out of yourself, just to see how it feels?

If so, please tag me in it so I can see, on Instagram or Facebook.

Without further ado, here is my second-ever guest post, shared with permission by Kate. Her original post can be found on her brand new blog: Kewe Life, here.

I’M GOING TO A RAVE.

Have we met? If not, nice to meet you. I’m pretty awesome. Not in a boastful or cocky way, but in a subtle, confident kind of way. Whether we know each other or not, sit back, relax, and settle in. Because I’m about to throw my subtlety to the wind in a radical exclamation of my love for myself.

Have you secretly admired someone but were never quite able to muster the courage to tell that person what you thought? Ever realize that person you were secretly admiring was yourself? In a long overdue acknowledgement of my awesomeness, I invite you to celebrate me with me as I finally send my lifelong crush a love letter.

And so, let the rave begin.

Dear Self,  

You’re a woman. An awesome woman. A powerful woman. A strong woman. A brave woman. A devoted woman. A curious woman. An affectionate woman. A kind woman. A caring woman.

You impress me every day with your bravery. Seriously, that shit is in-fucking-spiring. You wake up, get out of bed (most days), brush your teeth (most days, hah), then you go out into the world, and you show up, fully. Day in and day out. There you are. Standing, waiting, ready to work. To work on yourself, to work to connect with your soul, to work to sort through all the dark, messy clutter to make peace with yourself. You do all the work. 

You’re organized as fuck. Honestly, sometimes it’s concerning. But mostly it’s amazing. 

You want to help others. You seek out ways to. You are drawn to the desire to effect change. To lend a hand. Or an ear. Or a shoulder. Or whatever you can manage to share. 

You’re starting to learn boundaries. Boundaries to help yourself flourish, not boundaries to tame your desires. You’re learning the power of “no”. Not in a defiant way, but in a way that is caring of your own needs.

You say “thank you”, more often than not, now when someone compliments you. You don’t shy away from the light of your life. You walk into it, you welcome it, you seek that light. It wakes you up.

Superficial, you are not. Depth is your power. Depth of self, depth of connection, depth of commitment.  

Your ass is amazing. Truly. It’s a work of art. A creative expression of your strength. Powerful, ready to work.  

Your smile is incredible. Your eyes are beautiful. Your laugh is warm. Your giggle is endearing. Your wit is intoxicating.   

You are strong. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally. You do not sacrifice your kindness for your strength. You are cognizant of your rough edges and you look to buff them when you think it’s necessary. Because you care deeply about other people. About their feelings, their hopes, dreams, wishes, about their whole beings. You are willing to get hurt a little (or, sometimes, a lot) in the quest for connection. Because without connection, what is there? 

You stand really fucking tall. You are confident. You are funny. You are an amazing woman. You are generous. You are charismatic. You are goofy. You are secretly a great dancer, with enviable rhythm but also sometimes two left feet. Please share your dancing with the Universe; I’m sure it would love to see more of it. 

You are accepting. You are gifted. You are smart. You are inquisitive. You are headstrong. You are adventurous. You are talented. You are ballsy. You are sarcastic. You are interested. 

You lean in. You open the doors to the dark places. You walk boldly into the face of fear and shame and guilt and those big, scary emotions and you ask them to come out into the light. You see your demons as your muses. You seek to see the good in people, in the world, in life.  

You are beautiful. You are sexy. You are curvy and bendy and soft. You are hard and tough and gritty. You were made to do more. To bring joy. To share your experiences. To offer guidance. To offer support. To embrace life’s challenges as gifts.  

You are all I ever need you to be. You are everything you were meant to be. 

You have a voice. It’s big. Bold. Beautiful. Courageous. Inspiring. Funny.  

You’re an awesome aunt. Aunt Tatie, to be exact. You give, whatever you can, whenever you can.  

You are a writer. Your words were meant to be shared. Your voice, meant to be heard. The sharing of your words liberates your soul, eases your angst, soothes your heart and mind. Your writing is for you. 

You’re succeeding in a male-dominated world. Some might even say you’re thriving. You’ve been promoted, rewarded, fought over. You make decisions for yourself.  

You cook. You grill. You bake. You broil. You blend. You chop. You build. You demolish. You garden (meh). You clean. You vacuum. You polish. You launder. You iron. You steam. You fold. You straighten. You refresh. You are curious. You tend to whatever it is your heart wants.

You’re willing to suffer in order to find your own happiness. Your willing to suffer for others. You’re willing to suffer for peace. Because suffering is temporary in the name of peace. Peace is subjective. You choose peace for yourself.

You’re on a path to self-identity, self-confidence, self-definition that will lead to amazing things. You’re making your own identity. Arriving at it through hard work and a shitload of help.  

You’re humble. You ask for help when you need it. You raise your hand when you don’t understand. You seek clarity when you’re confused. 

You overthink things. That’s okay. Doing so has developed in you an awareness of human emotions and experiences that allows you to uniquely connect with others. You’re okay if those other people don’t want to connect. 

You’re not ready yet to share yourself with someone else. You’re not yet whole enough to fully let someone else in. You’re strong as fuck for putting your own needs first. You are not alone. Do you hear me? You are not alone. I am here. We are enough. For now and for always. We. Are. Enough. 

You’re trusting. Eventually. Until that point, you’re protective and that’s an admirable mechanism of self-care.

When you couldn’t find the words, you baked. You baked dozens and dozens of cookies. And somehow, your love was what people remember from those dark days when we lost a loved one too soon. You saved people with your kindness, with your caring, with your generosity. 

You are awesome. Your calluses and blisters and scars and bruises and stretch marks and cellulite and saggy skin and veins and freckles and beauty marks and blemishes and skin tags and hair and torn cuticles and dry skin and squishiness and tautness and muscles and fat and all the things that make a woman’s body, they are the fabric of you, they weave together so beautifully, they tell the history of your very amazing body. The history of your very amazing body that once weighed 192lbs. The history of your very amazing body that once weighed 142lbs. The history of your very amazing body that now weighs somewhere in between.

The history of your very amazing body that has withstood your hatred, your restriction, your loathing, your attempts at sabotage, your bingeing, your embarrassment, your shame, your fear, your downright disdain for this body you’ve been given. That history is history.

We now have a loving relationship where cellulite is sexy (say what?!), where stretch marks are womanly, where bruises and scrapes and blisters are reminders that you’re fragile, where calluses are reminders that you’re adaptive. Where squishiness is a reminder that you’re fucking human, where torn cuticles are reminders that manicures aren’t miracles, where muscles are a reminder that the work is never done.

You apologize. Because you’re strong like that.

You respect your body. You value serenity.  

You’re adventurous. You try new stuff. You’re not afraid to fail. You are willing to change. You’re ready to adapt. You’re pretty fucking awesome. You’re resilient. Like the waves that keep on crashing, you keep on showing up, methodically, religiously, consistently. 

With all the love, 

Me

P.S. #thanksbuddy

The post Dear Self, I Love You. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2fbEGZv

#Dear Self #I Love You.

[johnclapperne]

Dear Self, I Love You.

I recently gave a client the assignment that she had to rave about herself.

This is something I do in my workshops as well– I force beautiful, wonderful women to endure the horrendous torture that is standing up in front of a group and bragging about herself honestly, until the timer is up.

This exercise might sound kind of fun, but I assure you it brings up some really interesting stuff. It’s incredibly uncomfortable, as a woman, to break the unspoken law that we must be humble and modest.

I once watched a woman fight such an extraordinary inner battle as she stood there sweating and crying, that if I hadn’t given her the assignment, I might have thought she was trying to will herself to transform into a werewolf.

This inner battle is exactly why I assign it.

The person doing the bragging often learns a lot about how powerfully she has bought into certain social guidelines, and it opens an important discussion on what it would look like to really “own” your strengths, gifts, power, and beauty.

But something even more interesting often happens to the observers.

Watching a woman brag about herself is kind of shocking. It’s startling, and disorienting. We are experientially blind to the experience of watching a woman truly own her greatness– it has a way of making your brain go WAIT WHAT’S HAPPENING NOW?!

That’s why I want to share the following guest-post, written by a client.

This woman took my assignment (rave about yourself unapologetically) and turned it into a beautiful blog post, and as I read it I felt the familiar tingles in my brain.

This kind of self-celebration by a woman is powerful, because it’s so rare. I want you to read her work (I’m posting it below exactly as she wrote it) and see what comes up for you.

Does it make you uncomfortable? Inspired? Brain-glitchy?

Why?

If you feel so inspired, I want to hear from you, too. Will you rave about yourself in a video or written post?

Will you celebrate the shit out of yourself, just to see how it feels?

If so, please tag me in it so I can see, on Instagram or Facebook.

Without further ado, here is my second-ever guest post, shared with permission by Kate. Her original post can be found on her brand new blog: Kewe Life, here.

I’M GOING TO A RAVE.

Have we met? If not, nice to meet you. I’m pretty awesome. Not in a boastful or cocky way, but in a subtle, confident kind of way. Whether we know each other or not, sit back, relax, and settle in. Because I’m about to throw my subtlety to the wind in a radical exclamation of my love for myself.

Have you secretly admired someone but were never quite able to muster the courage to tell that person what you thought? Ever realize that person you were secretly admiring was yourself? In a long overdue acknowledgement of my awesomeness, I invite you to celebrate me with me as I finally send my lifelong crush a love letter.

And so, let the rave begin.

Dear Self,  

You’re a woman. An awesome woman. A powerful woman. A strong woman. A brave woman. A devoted woman. A curious woman. An affectionate woman. A kind woman. A caring woman.

You impress me every day with your bravery. Seriously, that shit is in-fucking-spiring. You wake up, get out of bed (most days), brush your teeth (most days, hah), then you go out into the world, and you show up, fully. Day in and day out. There you are. Standing, waiting, ready to work. To work on yourself, to work to connect with your soul, to work to sort through all the dark, messy clutter to make peace with yourself. You do all the work. 

You’re organized as fuck. Honestly, sometimes it’s concerning. But mostly it’s amazing. 

You want to help others. You seek out ways to. You are drawn to the desire to effect change. To lend a hand. Or an ear. Or a shoulder. Or whatever you can manage to share. 

You’re starting to learn boundaries. Boundaries to help yourself flourish, not boundaries to tame your desires. You’re learning the power of “no”. Not in a defiant way, but in a way that is caring of your own needs.

You say “thank you”, more often than not, now when someone compliments you. You don’t shy away from the light of your life. You walk into it, you welcome it, you seek that light. It wakes you up.

Superficial, you are not. Depth is your power. Depth of self, depth of connection, depth of commitment.  

Your ass is amazing. Truly. It’s a work of art. A creative expression of your strength. Powerful, ready to work.  

Your smile is incredible. Your eyes are beautiful. Your laugh is warm. Your giggle is endearing. Your wit is intoxicating.   

You are strong. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally. You do not sacrifice your kindness for your strength. You are cognizant of your rough edges and you look to buff them when you think it’s necessary. Because you care deeply about other people. About their feelings, their hopes, dreams, wishes, about their whole beings. You are willing to get hurt a little (or, sometimes, a lot) in the quest for connection. Because without connection, what is there? 

You stand really fucking tall. You are confident. You are funny. You are an amazing woman. You are generous. You are charismatic. You are goofy. You are secretly a great dancer, with enviable rhythm but also sometimes two left feet. Please share your dancing with the Universe; I’m sure it would love to see more of it. 

You are accepting. You are gifted. You are smart. You are inquisitive. You are headstrong. You are adventurous. You are talented. You are ballsy. You are sarcastic. You are interested. 

You lean in. You open the doors to the dark places. You walk boldly into the face of fear and shame and guilt and those big, scary emotions and you ask them to come out into the light. You see your demons as your muses. You seek to see the good in people, in the world, in life.  

You are beautiful. You are sexy. You are curvy and bendy and soft. You are hard and tough and gritty. You were made to do more. To bring joy. To share your experiences. To offer guidance. To offer support. To embrace life’s challenges as gifts.  

You are all I ever need you to be. You are everything you were meant to be. 

You have a voice. It’s big. Bold. Beautiful. Courageous. Inspiring. Funny.  

You’re an awesome aunt. Aunt Tatie, to be exact. You give, whatever you can, whenever you can.  

You are a writer. Your words were meant to be shared. Your voice, meant to be heard. The sharing of your words liberates your soul, eases your angst, soothes your heart and mind. Your writing is for you. 

You’re succeeding in a male-dominated world. Some might even say you’re thriving. You’ve been promoted, rewarded, fought over. You make decisions for yourself.  

You cook. You grill. You bake. You broil. You blend. You chop. You build. You demolish. You garden (meh). You clean. You vacuum. You polish. You launder. You iron. You steam. You fold. You straighten. You refresh. You are curious. You tend to whatever it is your heart wants.

You’re willing to suffer in order to find your own happiness. Your willing to suffer for others. You’re willing to suffer for peace. Because suffering is temporary in the name of peace. Peace is subjective. You choose peace for yourself.

You’re on a path to self-identity, self-confidence, self-definition that will lead to amazing things. You’re making your own identity. Arriving at it through hard work and a shitload of help.  

You’re humble. You ask for help when you need it. You raise your hand when you don’t understand. You seek clarity when you’re confused. 

You overthink things. That’s okay. Doing so has developed in you an awareness of human emotions and experiences that allows you to uniquely connect with others. You’re okay if those other people don’t want to connect. 

You’re not ready yet to share yourself with someone else. You’re not yet whole enough to fully let someone else in. You’re strong as fuck for putting your own needs first. You are not alone. Do you hear me? You are not alone. I am here. We are enough. For now and for always. We. Are. Enough. 

You’re trusting. Eventually. Until that point, you’re protective and that’s an admirable mechanism of self-care.

When you couldn’t find the words, you baked. You baked dozens and dozens of cookies. And somehow, your love was what people remember from those dark days when we lost a loved one too soon. You saved people with your kindness, with your caring, with your generosity. 

You are awesome. Your calluses and blisters and scars and bruises and stretch marks and cellulite and saggy skin and veins and freckles and beauty marks and blemishes and skin tags and hair and torn cuticles and dry skin and squishiness and tautness and muscles and fat and all the things that make a woman’s body, they are the fabric of you, they weave together so beautifully, they tell the history of your very amazing body. The history of your very amazing body that once weighed 192lbs. The history of your very amazing body that once weighed 142lbs. The history of your very amazing body that now weighs somewhere in between.

The history of your very amazing body that has withstood your hatred, your restriction, your loathing, your attempts at sabotage, your bingeing, your embarrassment, your shame, your fear, your downright disdain for this body you’ve been given. That history is history.

We now have a loving relationship where cellulite is sexy (say what?!), where stretch marks are womanly, where bruises and scrapes and blisters are reminders that you’re fragile, where calluses are reminders that you’re adaptive. Where squishiness is a reminder that you’re fucking human, where torn cuticles are reminders that manicures aren’t miracles, where muscles are a reminder that the work is never done.

You apologize. Because you’re strong like that.

You respect your body. You value serenity.  

You’re adventurous. You try new stuff. You’re not afraid to fail. You are willing to change. You’re ready to adapt. You’re pretty fucking awesome. You’re resilient. Like the waves that keep on crashing, you keep on showing up, methodically, religiously, consistently. 

With all the love, 

Me

P.S. #thanksbuddy

The post Dear Self, I Love You. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2fbEGZv

#Dear Self #I Love You.

[ruthellisneda]

Dear Self, I Love You.

I recently gave a client the assignment that she had to rave about herself.

This is something I do in my workshops as well– I force beautiful, wonderful women to endure the horrendous torture that is standing up in front of a group and bragging about herself honestly, until the timer is up.

This exercise might sound kind of fun, but I assure you it brings up some really interesting stuff. It’s incredibly uncomfortable, as a woman, to break the unspoken law that we must be humble and modest.

I once watched a woman fight such an extraordinary inner battle as she stood there sweating and crying, that if I hadn’t given her the assignment, I might have thought she was trying to will herself to transform into a werewolf.

This inner battle is exactly why I assign it.

The person doing the bragging often learns a lot about how powerfully she has bought into certain social guidelines, and it opens an important discussion on what it would look like to really “own” your strengths, gifts, power, and beauty.

But something even more interesting often happens to the observers.

Watching a woman brag about herself is kind of shocking. It’s startling, and disorienting. We are experientially blind to the experience of watching a woman truly own her greatness– it has a way of making your brain go WAIT WHAT’S HAPPENING NOW?!

That’s why I want to share the following guest-post, written by a client.

This woman took my assignment (rave about yourself unapologetically) and turned it into a beautiful blog post, and as I read it I felt the familiar tingles in my brain.

This kind of self-celebration by a woman is powerful, because it’s so rare. I want you to read her work (I’m posting it below exactly as she wrote it) and see what comes up for you.

Does it make you uncomfortable? Inspired? Brain-glitchy?

Why?

If you feel so inspired, I want to hear from you, too. Will you rave about yourself in a video or written post?

Will you celebrate the shit out of yourself, just to see how it feels?

If so, please tag me in it so I can see, on Instagram or Facebook.

Without further ado, here is my second-ever guest post, shared with permission by Kate. Her original post can be found on her brand new blog: Kewe Life, here.

I’M GOING TO A RAVE.

Have we met? If not, nice to meet you. I’m pretty awesome. Not in a boastful or cocky way, but in a subtle, confident kind of way. Whether we know each other or not, sit back, relax, and settle in. Because I’m about to throw my subtlety to the wind in a radical exclamation of my love for myself.

Have you secretly admired someone but were never quite able to muster the courage to tell that person what you thought? Ever realize that person you were secretly admiring was yourself? In a long overdue acknowledgement of my awesomeness, I invite you to celebrate me with me as I finally send my lifelong crush a love letter.

And so, let the rave begin.

Dear Self,  

You’re a woman. An awesome woman. A powerful woman. A strong woman. A brave woman. A devoted woman. A curious woman. An affectionate woman. A kind woman. A caring woman.

You impress me every day with your bravery. Seriously, that shit is in-fucking-spiring. You wake up, get out of bed (most days), brush your teeth (most days, hah), then you go out into the world, and you show up, fully. Day in and day out. There you are. Standing, waiting, ready to work. To work on yourself, to work to connect with your soul, to work to sort through all the dark, messy clutter to make peace with yourself. You do all the work. 

You’re organized as fuck. Honestly, sometimes it’s concerning. But mostly it’s amazing. 

You want to help others. You seek out ways to. You are drawn to the desire to effect change. To lend a hand. Or an ear. Or a shoulder. Or whatever you can manage to share. 

You’re starting to learn boundaries. Boundaries to help yourself flourish, not boundaries to tame your desires. You’re learning the power of “no”. Not in a defiant way, but in a way that is caring of your own needs.

You say “thank you”, more often than not, now when someone compliments you. You don’t shy away from the light of your life. You walk into it, you welcome it, you seek that light. It wakes you up.

Superficial, you are not. Depth is your power. Depth of self, depth of connection, depth of commitment.  

Your ass is amazing. Truly. It’s a work of art. A creative expression of your strength. Powerful, ready to work.  

Your smile is incredible. Your eyes are beautiful. Your laugh is warm. Your giggle is endearing. Your wit is intoxicating.   

You are strong. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally. You do not sacrifice your kindness for your strength. You are cognizant of your rough edges and you look to buff them when you think it’s necessary. Because you care deeply about other people. About their feelings, their hopes, dreams, wishes, about their whole beings. You are willing to get hurt a little (or, sometimes, a lot) in the quest for connection. Because without connection, what is there? 

You stand really fucking tall. You are confident. You are funny. You are an amazing woman. You are generous. You are charismatic. You are goofy. You are secretly a great dancer, with enviable rhythm but also sometimes two left feet. Please share your dancing with the Universe; I’m sure it would love to see more of it. 

You are accepting. You are gifted. You are smart. You are inquisitive. You are headstrong. You are adventurous. You are talented. You are ballsy. You are sarcastic. You are interested. 

You lean in. You open the doors to the dark places. You walk boldly into the face of fear and shame and guilt and those big, scary emotions and you ask them to come out into the light. You see your demons as your muses. You seek to see the good in people, in the world, in life.  

You are beautiful. You are sexy. You are curvy and bendy and soft. You are hard and tough and gritty. You were made to do more. To bring joy. To share your experiences. To offer guidance. To offer support. To embrace life’s challenges as gifts.  

You are all I ever need you to be. You are everything you were meant to be. 

You have a voice. It’s big. Bold. Beautiful. Courageous. Inspiring. Funny.  

You’re an awesome aunt. Aunt Tatie, to be exact. You give, whatever you can, whenever you can.  

You are a writer. Your words were meant to be shared. Your voice, meant to be heard. The sharing of your words liberates your soul, eases your angst, soothes your heart and mind. Your writing is for you. 

You’re succeeding in a male-dominated world. Some might even say you’re thriving. You’ve been promoted, rewarded, fought over. You make decisions for yourself.  

You cook. You grill. You bake. You broil. You blend. You chop. You build. You demolish. You garden (meh). You clean. You vacuum. You polish. You launder. You iron. You steam. You fold. You straighten. You refresh. You are curious. You tend to whatever it is your heart wants.

You’re willing to suffer in order to find your own happiness. Your willing to suffer for others. You’re willing to suffer for peace. Because suffering is temporary in the name of peace. Peace is subjective. You choose peace for yourself.

You’re on a path to self-identity, self-confidence, self-definition that will lead to amazing things. You’re making your own identity. Arriving at it through hard work and a shitload of help.  

You’re humble. You ask for help when you need it. You raise your hand when you don’t understand. You seek clarity when you’re confused. 

You overthink things. That’s okay. Doing so has developed in you an awareness of human emotions and experiences that allows you to uniquely connect with others. You’re okay if those other people don’t want to connect. 

You’re not ready yet to share yourself with someone else. You’re not yet whole enough to fully let someone else in. You’re strong as fuck for putting your own needs first. You are not alone. Do you hear me? You are not alone. I am here. We are enough. For now and for always. We. Are. Enough. 

You’re trusting. Eventually. Until that point, you’re protective and that’s an admirable mechanism of self-care.

When you couldn’t find the words, you baked. You baked dozens and dozens of cookies. And somehow, your love was what people remember from those dark days when we lost a loved one too soon. You saved people with your kindness, with your caring, with your generosity. 

You are awesome. Your calluses and blisters and scars and bruises and stretch marks and cellulite and saggy skin and veins and freckles and beauty marks and blemishes and skin tags and hair and torn cuticles and dry skin and squishiness and tautness and muscles and fat and all the things that make a woman’s body, they are the fabric of you, they weave together so beautifully, they tell the history of your very amazing body. The history of your very amazing body that once weighed 192lbs. The history of your very amazing body that once weighed 142lbs. The history of your very amazing body that now weighs somewhere in between.

The history of your very amazing body that has withstood your hatred, your restriction, your loathing, your attempts at sabotage, your bingeing, your embarrassment, your shame, your fear, your downright disdain for this body you’ve been given. That history is history.

We now have a loving relationship where cellulite is sexy (say what?!), where stretch marks are womanly, where bruises and scrapes and blisters are reminders that you’re fragile, where calluses are reminders that you’re adaptive. Where squishiness is a reminder that you’re fucking human, where torn cuticles are reminders that manicures aren’t miracles, where muscles are a reminder that the work is never done.

You apologize. Because you’re strong like that.

You respect your body. You value serenity.  

You’re adventurous. You try new stuff. You’re not afraid to fail. You are willing to change. You’re ready to adapt. You’re pretty fucking awesome. You’re resilient. Like the waves that keep on crashing, you keep on showing up, methodically, religiously, consistently. 

With all the love, 

Me

P.S. #thanksbuddy

The post Dear Self, I Love You. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2fbEGZv

#Dear Self #I Love You.