One time a friend told me that if she wanted to have a chill night she would come to me and ask for tea and a book to read. I didn’t like tea at the time, but I always made sure my cupboards had them in case she needed a quiet night. One time I told my boss that I loved oranges, but couldn’t peel them because of my nails. For a year he made sure to peel me one at least once a week. Once my friends gave me a made up superlative of “most likely to have a pen they could borrow” and ever since I’ve made sure I always carry a pen with me. A long time ago, my high school librarian told me that no one would care what my grade in my sophomore chemistry class was if I’m bringing them doughnuts and asking them about their day.
Sometimes friendship is about carrying pens and peeling oranges. But the point is, surrounding yourself with people who you want to do the little things for. The point of it all is bringing in the doughnuts because you’ve found the people who deserve the doughnuts.
And I’m so fucking lucky, and I don’t always say it or even think it. Because I have friends who send me letters and who told me when the cafeteria at work had chopped tomatoes and who want to watch Scream with me and it just hits me sometimes that this world can do the ugliest things to people, but as long as I still have a friend who will point out dogs on the sidewalks to me then I have something amazing to live for. And as long as I have pals who I want to make peppermint bark for, then I have a reason to keep pushing this world to be better.
summary: jimin knows what the quiet means for you.
pairing:park jimin x reader genre:light angst, comfort-fluff rating:g word count: 1.1k tags/warnings:eludes to mental distress, emotional, crying, a lot of comfort
a/n:ok i know i said i wasn’t posting right now but i just wrote this [slightly edited] and wanted to share in case anyone else needs some comfort~
He knew as soon as he got home that it was going to be a quiet night. Jimin knew when you took an hour to respond to his text about dinner, answering with a “whatever you feel like having is fine,” and a single emoji. He knew that emoji was meant to be cute and to deter him from the fact that you weren’t in a texting mood.
Or a talking mood.
And definitely not in any kind of mood to get on facetime during his short break between practice.
He could focus on his work when this happened. When the best medicine for you was silence for the time being until he got home. But it didn’t stop the whispered sighs that slipped out of him throughout the rest of the day. Or the way one of the members had to repeat his name a second time before he realized they were talking to him because for a second he got lost in the thought of you. What are you doing right now? Were you taking breaks between working? Had you eaten lunch and had some water?
He couldn’t stop himself from texting you when he thought about you possibly crying alone. He hated that thought the most.
[7:15 PM] from Jimin: hello my baby [: i’ll be home early tonight
Summary: You can’t tell if it takes you a day a week or a month to fall in love with Steven. You just know that you do.
Warnings: There’s a Super Super Super brief description of bandaged wounds in the Friday section. there’s nothing graphic but just in case you should know that’s there.
Author’s Note: Hi I’m still obsessed with him your honor. It is once again, not beta read because somehow the idea of roping one of my friends into proofreading my unhinged softness is too embaressing for me ajlkfjdslfjdlksajflkdjas
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It starts on a Tuesday at noon.
You hate Tuesdays of course, you’ve always had an issue with them since you were little, the first one to throw them under the bus in defense of Mondays. This Tuesday was particularly bad though, as if the whole of the universe had ganged up on you to make you regret ever learning the name for the worst day of the week.
you will feel loved and love again. you will wake up without that heavy feeling in your chest. you’ll enjoy things again, and be able to get through the day without crying. this darkness isn’t forever. you’ll glow again soon.
you’re going to love again, find a job again, create art again, do what you love again, feel powerful again. you’re going to be back on track. i don’t know when, but you are going to feel like yourself again, eventually. this isn’t the end. hang in there.
In 2006 a high school English teacher asked students to write a famous author and ask for advice. Kurt Vonnegut was the only one to respond - and his response is magnificent: “Dear Xavier High School, and Ms. Lockwood, and Messrs Perin, McFeely, Batten, Maurer and Congiusta:
I thank you for your friendly letters. You sure know how to cheer up a really old geezer (84) in his sunset years. I don’t make public appearances any more because I now resemble nothing so much as an iguana.
What I had to say to you, moreover, would not take long, to wit: Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow.
Seriously! I mean starting right now, do art and do it for the rest of your lives. Draw a funny or nice picture of Ms. Lockwood, and give it to her. Dance home after school, and sing in the shower and on and on. Make a face in your mashed potatoes. Pretend you’re Count Dracula.
Here’s an assignment for tonight, and I hope Ms. Lockwood will flunk you if you don’t do it: Write a six line poem, about anything, but rhymed. No fair tennis without a net. Make it as good as you possibly can. But don’t tell anybody what you’re doing. Don’t show it or recite it to anybody, not even your girlfriend or parents or whatever, or Ms. Lockwood. OK?
Tear it up into teeny-weeny pieces, and discard them into widely separated trash recepticals. You will find that you have already been gloriously rewarded for your poem. You have experienced becoming, learned a lot more about what’s inside you, and you have made your soul grow.
God bless you all!
Kurt Vonnegut
Nimbus Publishing and Vagrant Press Goose Lane Editions Breakwater Books Ltd. The Acorn Press Bouton d'or Acadie Canada Council for the Arts | Conseil des arts du Canada
When I was 15 I spent a month working on an archeological dig. I was talking to one of the archeologists one day during our lunch break and he asked those kinds of “getting to know you” questions you ask young people: Do you play sports? What’s your favorite subject? And I told him, no I don’t play any sports. I do theater, I’m in choir, I play the violin and piano, I used to take art classes.
And he went WOW. That’s amazing! And I said, “Oh no, but I’m not any good at ANY of them.”
And he said something then that I will never forget and which absolutely blew my mind because no one had ever said anything like it to me before: “I don’t think being good at things is the point of doing them. I think you’ve got all these wonderful experiences with different skills, and that all teaches you things and makes you an interesting person, no matter how well you do them.”
And that honestly changed my life. Because I went from a failure, someone who hadn’t been talented enough at anything to excel, to someone who did things because I enjoyed them. I had been raised in such an achievement-oriented environment, so inundated with the myth of Talent, that I thought it was only worth doing things if you could “Win” at them.
it’s okay to mourn the person you could have been. it’s okay to be angry or resentful at that lost potential. it’s okay to be sad about it too. but i want you to know that there are so many parts of you, the you that exists right now, that are beautiful and lovely and meaningful. just because your past is lost doesn’t mean your future has to be too.
This was super nice to hear cuz if this was something I stood alone in doing, then I’d always be stuck believing that something is massively wrong w/ me
Slt (Salut) = Hello Bcp (Beaucoup) = A lot Dsl (Désolé) = Sorry Stp (S’il te plait) = Please Dac (D’accord) = Okay Qd (Quand) = When Qqch (Quelque chose) = Something Qqn (quelqu’un) = Somebody
Internet words
Mdr (Mort de rire) = Lol Ptdr (Pété de rire) = Lmao Vdm (Vie de merde) = Fuck my life Tg (T’as gueule) = Shut up BG (Beau gosse) = Hot guy Tkt (T’inquiête) = Don’t worry
Common sayings
Bref = In short Ouais = Yeah Putain, Merde = Shit C’est de la merde = It’s crap Ça craint = It sucks Ça me soûle = It’s annoying me C’est relou (C’est lourd) = It sucks C’est ouf (C’est fou) = It’s crazy C’est trop cool = It’s awesome C’est le bordel = It’s a mess Je suis claqué = I’m exhausted Je me casse = I’m getting out of here Je m’en fou = I don’t care Tu rigoles = You’re jocking Tu te fous de ma gueule = You’re kidding me Tu fais quoi? = What’s up? Laisse tomber = Just forget it Fais gaffe = Be careful Péter un plomb = Going crazy Avoir la flemme de faire quelque chose = To be too lazy to do something
Unformal verbs
Bouffer = To eat Taffer = To work Roupiller, Pioncer = To sleep Kiffer = To have a crush on someone Etre vénère (Etre énervé) = To be annoyed Se marrer = To laugh
Unformal nouns
Un mec = A guy Une meuf = A girl Un pote = A friend Une bagnole = A car Une baraque = A house Un pieu = A bed Un bouquin = A book Une clope = A cigarette Le fric, le blé, le thune, l’oseille, le pognon = Money Un flic, un keuf = A cop Un gosse, un gamin = A kid Un boulot, un taf, un job = A job La fac = University Le bahut = High school
The above phrases/words can be used in almost every informal situation, but don’t use them in your essays or in any kind of normal writing!
I have this hc about Tommy’s father finally leaving, and Tommy being completely fucked up.
He’s seeing it coming for a while (‘cause this is not the first time). His father is a douche, and a psychologically abusive asshole and Tommy knows they’re better off without him, all of them, but especially his mom (and God, Tommy loves her, he loves her so much) but—
It’s a hundred million times worse when it really, really happens.
So he withdraws into himself, doesn’t show up at school, doesn’t pick up his phone.
And Billy and Steve are worried as fuck. They only know what Tommy told them in a text, an almost unintelligible thing sent at four in the morning, right before Tommy went radio silent.
And they neither know what to do. Think that maybe Tommy needs space so they give him space. But it’s been three days and Steve’s climbing up the walls and Billy’s no better so they go to his house and when Tommy’s mom opens the door she looks devastated but she accepts their hugs, presses her lips thin when Steve tell her how sorry he is, offers them cookies because she’s the sweetest thing.
“Tommy’s in his room. Be patient with him. He really loves his father” and her voice trembles a little and Steve want to find the fucker, beat his sorry ass till he promises he’s not coming back again, and given the way Billy’s looking at him, he wouldn’t be doing it alone.
And Tommy doesn’t answer when they knock at his door one, two, three times. Tells them to “Fuck off!” on the fourth.
“You know us better than to think we’re going away” shouts Billy, voice hoarse and resonating on the whole hallway “So open the fucking door”
There’s a long pause. Steve feels his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Finally, Tommy says:
“It’s not closed”
And his room is dark, only a trace of sun coming from the small crack on the thick curtains, but they can see Tommy lying on his bed thanks to the light that sweeps thought the door, heavy blankets pulled up his head. And Steve doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know at all. But Billy closes the door behind then, finds the low edge of the blankets and slides under it, so Steve follows him, crawls all the way up Tommy’s bed till he’s lying with his chest lined up with his back, Billy at his front, the three of them hidden together inside the calm warmth of the blankets, so close that they’re almost touching, breathing softly.
None of them say anything for a while, and then,
“He’s such a fucker. And we’re so fucking stupid. I’m so fucking stupid”
“You’re not—” starts Steve, but Tommy cuts hin off.
“Yeah. Yeah. I am. I should have kicked him out. I know him. And I didn’t. And now it’s happening all over again and I could have done something. But I wanted to believe him so yeah, I’m fucking stupid”
He’s crying. Steve can’t see him but he knows he’s crying. There’s too much pain, to much regret in his voice for him not to. He reaches out, slips an arm around his waist, buries his nose on the back of Tommy’s neck and hopes for his touch to say everything he can’t find the words to. And Billy comes closer too, wrapping the two of them, fingertips pressing on Steve’s back. Says:
“If he comes back, you got us. We won’t let you believe him again”
The air they’re breathing feels heavy with raw, overwhelming emotion, vibrating with feeling. Billy asks:
“Do you want us to stay?”
And Tommy’s fingers curl around Steve’s, leans onto Billy.
“Yeah”
That’s the first night they kiss. The three of them. Kisses that taste like promises you would die to keep. Like “We’re here” like “We’re not gonna left you” like “We’re gonna stay with you, Tommy. Tommy, if you want us”
When I was a (unmedicated, undiagnosed ADHD) kid, like, under 12, my room was a mess all the time. Not shocking.
I struggled keeping it clean.
I struggled getting it clean.
I would sincerely put in quite a bit of effort and be really proud of the progress I made. Then one of my parents would come check and see how I was doing.
“Well, you’ve still got a long way to go.”
That sentence. I was like, 11 when my parents were saying that to me. It was crushing. All my pride and satisfaction with my work was completely gone. All my effort was worthless to them. All they saw what everything I didn’tdo.
At the age of ELEVEN, I knew that wasn’t right. That wasn’t fair. I swore to myself I would never invalidate someone’s work like that.
Now, at 30, I catch myself thinking ‘I cleaned up, but my apartment is still so messy.’ and I flashback to standing in my bedroom as a child, hearing those fucking words from my parents.
'No. I wouldn’t invalidate someone else’s work. I’m not going to invalidate my own. I did good. I made progress.’ and I’ll list the things that I DID get done to myself.
You deserve credit for all the progress you make.
You deserve credit for all the work you do.
It doesn’t matter how much work you have left.
What you accomplish, no matter how small, counts. Even when what you accomplished was taking a day to rest and recharge and give yourself a break.
Never let anyone invalidate your work. Not even you.
Last night I went over to Legolas’ place. He was sore from a bike ride over the weekend, so I planned on it being a low key night. I offered to make butternut squash mac ‘n cheese and some kale, and he made us baked potatoes. We chatted while we cooked, he groped me a few times, and it was all very pleasant. Eventually, we were just waiting on the pasta to cook. Legolas asked me if that was all that was left, and when I said it was, he said “Get on your knees.” I smiled and complied immediately. He took out his cock and I got to work, wrapping my lips around it and taking it into my mouth. He allowed me to control the pace at first, but then he grabbed my head and used my mouth like the fuckhole it is. I tried not to pull away and be a good hole for him, even when there was spit all over my face and I wanted to wipe it away. Shortly before the pasta was done, he stopped and pulled his cock out of my mouth. He seemed pretty pleased with himself. I know I was happy to get a chance to be doubly useful in the kitchen.
We took the food up to his room and watched a documentary about atheism on Netflix while we ate because obviously. When we finished, he asked if I had to go. I told him I could stay if he wanted, and he asked, “If I fuck your cunt, are you going going to be a whiny little bitch about it?” I smiled, because I love having him hurt my cunt, and told him that no, I would not be. He grabbed me and dragged me by the hair over to the bed and threw me down on it. Before I really knew what was happening, his cock was in my mouth and he was fucking my face. I did my best to just take the abuse as his cock hit the back of my throat with force. He stopped at one point and as I gasped for air, he asked me “Do you want more of that?” I took a breath and told him that I did want more, which he gladly gave me.
When he stopped fucking my face, I didn’t get more than a few seconds before he pulled me by my hair over to the side of the bed. I knew what was coming, but it’s always a little bit of a shock when his cock slips all the way in when he starts throatfucking me. It hurts and I can’t breathe and it’s scary. I always end up crying at least a little bit from the violence and from having my airway blocked. And I love it when he uses me that way.
Tonight was no different, and he pushed his cock all the way in, making me grip the sheets, struggling not to panic and, more importantly, not to jerk away from him. He used my throat hard, pushing almost until I couldn’t handle any more before letting me up to cough and breathe for a moment before pulling my head back down and sliding his cock back into my throat. He did this repeatedly, slapping me and pulling my hair when I wasn’t taking his cock. When I gagged and half-vomited in my mouth a couple times, he just laughed at me. My face was covered in my own sputum, which is one of my least favorite substances to be covered in. Partway through, he opened his bathroom door so I could watch my hole being violated. As he fucked my throat hard, he commented that I’d improved since he’d started doing this to me. I would have smiled at the compliment if I hadn’t been busy fighting my own body’s natural reaction to pull away when something big is shoved down my throat.
Finally, he stopped abusing my throat and pulled me over to the side of the bed. He lay down in the middle of the bed and said we could take a break. I like to think I earned it. Of course, I wasn’t going to get to just sit back and relax. No, I was to continue using my mouth on his cock. He told me, “If you do it good enough this way, we don’t have to go back to the other way.” I took as much of him as I could, pushing myself and using my tongue at the same time. I was focused on what I was doing, so when he asked, “Have you been giving a lot of blowjobs lately?” it surprised me. I told him I hadn’t been and he said, “You’re better at it.” I appreciated the compliment and went back to servicing him with my mouth.
Either I didn’t do quite good enough a job, despite my improvement, or he just felt like fucking my throat again, because Legolas grabbed my hair and pulled me back over the side of the bed. I shied away once or twice, instinct overtaking my brain for a moment, but then gripped the bed. He held my arms down and slid his cock all the way into my throat. I did my best to just accept the violation, wanting to be good for him. He stopped for a moment and told me, “I’m going to do this for a while longer, then I’m going to fuck your cunt, and then I’m going to cum on your face.” I liked the sound of that plan. Not that it mattered, since he wasn’t asking if I was okay with him doing those things, he was telling me what was going to happen.
He fucked my throat for a while longer, and when he finally finished, I coughed and caught my breath for a moment. I took out my tampon and sat back on the bed. “Spread your legs for me.” I opened my legs, hesitating only a little, both looking forward to and dreading the pain I would be getting. “Look how wet you are,” he told me. And I was. I was wet enough for him to get his cock in, just from having my mouth and throat abused. He pushed in, making me wince, and started fucking me hard. He looked down at me, alternating between moaning with pleasure and grimacing from pain and discomfort. “Do you feel like a third wave feminist now?” he asked me. I said “yes,” and I did. I felt like a silly woman who gives men whatever they want under the guise of being “empowered.” In reality, I know I’m just fulfilling my role as a woman, having my holes used for the entertainment and pleasure of men.
In the middle of hurting me with his cock, he slowed and started thrusting less deeply. “See?” he said, “I can make it feel really good.” He pushed a finger in my mouth and started rubbing my clit while he was fucking me. Now I was just getting pleasure, and I started moaning a little, although I was still jumpy, sure that he was going slap me in the face at any moment. He asked me if I was going to get off, and I told him I didn’t have permission. He pointed out that I can always ask him and see what the answer might be. I asked if I could please have permission, and he asked if I was going to get off. I responded that I thought maybe I could, but that I didn’t want to take time from him doing something else. He told me that he was doing exactly what he wanted with me and I shouldn’t worry about it. “Just sit there and look pretty,” he said, making me laugh, “And laugh at my jokes.”
Well, even a dumb cunt like me can do that, so I relaxed as he started working on my clit. “Let’s bring in some help,” he said, and grabbed his Hitachi and put a condom on it. (Ladies, try not to date men who don’t own their own Hitachis.) He pressed the Hitachi against me and started fucking me again. He was giving me the D and the Hitachi. I did get close, and normally I would have been able to get off without much difficulty with treatment like that, but I’ve been having some depression-caused sex drive issues that are accompanied by orgasm difficulties. Eventually, I stopped him and explained that I didn’t think I was going to be able to get off. He was very understanding and told me I had nothing to worry about. “I was going to ruin it anyway,” he told me. What a sweet guy. How did I get so lucky?
He said he’d been getting close and started fucking me again. Looking at me, he asked, “As long as I’ve known you, you’ve given me whatever I want from you. Why?” “Because you give me a little attention,” I responded. That’s the truth. I’m desperate, and I’ll do pretty much anything a man asks of me, just for a bit of the male attention and approval I crave. Legolas commented that getting fucked hurts more when he does it from behind, and made me flip over. He pushed back into me and started fucking me, making it hurt. From behind it’s less of a mix of pleasure and pain, and more just plain suffering. He grabbed my hair and pulled my head up, his cock slamming into my cunt and making me cry out in pain.
He pulled out and tossed me a towel to put under my head. Kneeling over me, he stroked his cock while I licked his balls and rubbed my cunt. He had me stop and instructed, “Beg me not to cum on your face.” I don’t feel like I’m very good at begging, but I wasn’t about to refuse. “Please don’t cum on my face. I don’t want you to. It’s going to be a mess. Please don’t. No, please! Don’t cum on my face!” I pleaded. Legolas grabbed my head and covered my face in his cum as I begged him not to. It was incredibly hot to have him want me to ask him not to do something and then, of course, do it anyway. I really like having my desires ignored and even actively violated.
“I almost believed you didn’t want me to do it,” he said as he wiped himself off. I’m glad my begging was satisfactory, if not prizewinning. We cleaned off ourselves and I got dressed. We took the food downstairs and I did the dishes, like a woman should do. Legolas told me a couple times that he really enjoyed the evening. I did as well. I’d been feeling depressed and mopey and antisocial, and my sex drive has been mostly dead. Obviously I’m not completely fixed, but I feel rejuvenated and more like my old self. Happier.
Sometimes you just need a night of delicious vegan food, being treated like a set of holes, and getting fucked. Hard.
